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.-      ,.  ;  . 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 


UNIV.  Of  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELEb 


By  the  Same  Author 

WHEN  BLADES  ARE  OUT  AND 
LOVE'S  AFIELD 

Buff   buckram,    eight    illustrations    by   E. 
Plaisted   Abbott,   with    colored  border 
decorations  and  head-pieces  by  Ed- 
ward Stratum  Holloway,  $1.50 

Mr.  Brady's  novel  is  full  of  fighting,  gal- 
lant deeds  and  the  surprises  and  alluring 
uncertainties  of  love-making.  It  has  the 
vivid  setting  of  Virginia  and  Carolina  in 
1781 

''As  a  romance  it  is  delightful." — Boston 
Transcript 

"  A.  perfect  gem  of  a  volume.  One  of  the 
daintiest  that  ever  came  to  the  World's 
table."— New  York  World 


"  Oh,  Captain  Barry,  you  must  do  something 


See  page  35 


WOVEN  WITH 
THE  SHIP 

A  NOVEL  OF  1865 

TOGETHER  WITH  CERTAIN 

OTHER    VERACIOUS    TALES 

OF  VARIOUS  SORTS 

BY 

CYRUS  TOWNSEND  BRADY,  LL.D. 

Author  of  "  When  Blades  are  Out  and  Love's  Afield,"  "  For  the 

Freedom  of  the  Sea,"    "  Hohenzollern,"    "The  Quiberon 

Touch,"  "  Border  Fights  and  Fighters,"  etc. 

WITH     MANY    ILLUSTRATIONS    BY 

HOWARD  CHANDLER  CHRISTY,  FRANK 
X.  LEYENDECKER,  W.  GLACKENS,  WILL 
CRAWFORD,  AND  H.  L.  V.  PARKHURST 


PHILADELPHIA     67    LONDON 
J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT   COMPANY 

1902 


Copyright,  1902,  by 
THB  CROWBLL,  &  KIRKPATRICK  COMPANY 

Copyright,  1902,  by 
THE  CROWELL  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

Copyright,  1902,  by 
J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 

Puklithtd   Octobtr,  iqO2 


Electrotypcd  and  Printed  by 
B.  Lippincott  Company,  Philadelphia,  U.  S.  A. 


Lovingly  Dedicated 
to 

Margaret  and  Katharine 

Whose  chief  pleasure  during  one  seashore 

summer  lay  in  listening  to  their 

father     while    this 

romance  was 

"  WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP" 


21289B3 


PREFACE 


PREFACES  remind  me  of  a  certain  text  of 
Scripture,  —  i.e.,  "the  last  shall  be  first," 
—  for  they  are  things  written  after  which 
go  before  !     Whether  or  not  they  serve  a 
useful   purpose  is  hard  to  say.      I  have 
several   thousands   of  them  in   my  library,  most  of 
which  I  have  read,  and  perhaps  the  fact  that  I  am  a 
reader  of  prefaces  may  mark  me  as  unique.    And  the 
mark  may  be  accentuated  to  the  gentle  reader  —  if 
this  preface  should  have  any  —  when  I  say  that  I  am 
also  one  of  the  few  remaining  authors  who  write  them. 
Only  one  of  my  books  is  without  a  preface,  —  though 
some  of  them  are  disguised  as  notes,  or  forewords, 
or  afterwords,  —  and  I  hereby  apologize  for  the  aceph- 
alous condition  of  that  volume. 

I  am  determined  that  this  book  shall  be  amply 
provided,  and  though  I  write  the  preface  while  I  am 
sending  back  the  proof  galleys,  yet  I  will  begin  at 
the  beginning.  Beginnings  are  sometimes  interest- 
ing, although  the  interest  of  a  beginning  largely 
depends  on  the  ending  thereof.  I  shall  hope  that 
this  book  in  the  end  may  commend  itself  sufficiently 
to  my  indulgent  readers  to  make  the  story  of  the 
beginning  worth  while. 

"The  years  are  many,  the  years  are  long,"  since  a 
happy  young  sailor,  fresh  from  his  graduation  at  the 

vii 


PREFACE 

United  States  Naval  Academy,  spent  some  of  the 
pleasantest  days  of  his  life  in  the  shadow  of  the  old 
ship ;  for  there  was  a  ship,  just  such  a  one  as  I  have 
described,  and  in  just  such  a  condition.  There  was 
a  white  house  on  the  hill,  too,  and  a  very  old  naval 
officer,  who  took  a  great  interest  in  the  opening 
career  of  the  young  aspirant  who  passed  so  many 
hours  lying  on  the  grass  amid  the  mouldering  ways, 
with  the  huge  bulk  of  the  ship  looming  over  his  head 
and  the  sparkling  waters  of  the  bay  breaking  at  his  feet. 

There  were  girls,  too,  and  a  sailor,  and  soldiers 
galore  across  the  harbor  in  the  barracks,  and  back  of 
all  the  sleepy,  dreamy,  idle,  quaint,  and  ancient  little 
town.  The  story,  of  course,  is  only  a  romance  ;  but 
the  setting  at  least  is  actual,  and  there  is  this  touch 
of  realism  in  the  tale  :  when  the  old  ship  was  torn 
down  to  be  made  into  kindling-wood,  a  part  of  it  fell 
upon  one  of  the  destroyers  and  crushed  the  life  out 
of  him, — stern  protest  against  an  ignoble  ending  ! 

The  idea  of  the  story  came  to  me  twenty  years 
ago.  Indeed,  in  a  brief,  disconnected  way  I  set  it 
down  on  paper  and  forgot  it  until  I  chanced  to 
resurrect  it  last  year,  when  I  threw  aside  the  old 
notes  and  wrote  the  story  de  novo. 

I  intend  it  as  a  character  sketch  of  the  old  admiral, 
the  veteran  sailor,  the  young  officer,  the  innocent 
woman  they  all  loved,  and— dare  I  say  it? — the 
mighty  ship.  Here  are  contrasts,  surely. 

When  I  wrote  "  Hohenzollern,"  I  thought  it  would 
be  perfectly  plain  to  every  one  that  it  was  not  an  his- 
torical novel.  Vain  hope  !  Yet  I  am  not  discouraged 


PREFACE 

by  the  lack  of  perception  on  the  part  of  the  critics. 
Therefore  I  put  this  novel  forth  with  a  stronger  confi- 
dence that  it  will  not  be  considered  in  that  category. 
Save  for  what  I  have  admitted,  there  is  not  one  word 
of  history  in  it.  Indeed,  I  have  deliberately,  and  be- 
cause it  was  my  fancy,  chosen  to  appropriate  the  name 
of  Admiral  Charles  Stewart,  "Old  Ironsides," — who 
did  indeed  live  well  into  the  Civil  War  period,  but 
who  died  under  very  different  circumstances, — for  the 
name  of  the  ancient  captain  in  the  white  house  on 
the  hill.  I  apologize  to  his  manes,  his  descendants, 
and  his  friends  for  the  liberty. 

Now,  I  do  not  write  this  because  I  wish  to  make 
any  apology  for  the  historical  novel.  Not  at  all.  The 
thing  is  slightly  overdone  at  present,  but  that  is  proof 
of  its  goodness.  So  far  as  I  am  concerned  I  will 
stand  by  my  guns.  I  love  to  read  historic  romances 
when  they  are  good,  and  I  love  to  write  them — even 
when  they  are  as  my  own.  I  expect  to  write  more  of 
them,  too  ;  but  this  really  is  not  one.  It  is  a  war  story 
without  any  war,  a  sea  story  without  any  sea  ;  yet  it 
exhibits  a  great  struggle  and  rings  with  a  great  victory. 
The  reader  may  characterize  it  further  at  pleasure. 

As  for  the  second  part  of  the  volume  I  have  called 
it  Veracious  Tales  advisedly,  for  all  of  these  stories 
are  founded  upon  facts  in  one  way  or  another.  Some 
of  them  have  been  suggested  to  me  by  incidents  with 
which  I  am  familiar  because  in  them  I  bore  a  small 
part.  The  substance  of  one  of  them  came  from  a 
young  English  traveller  who  told  a  romantic  incident 
at  a  delightful  dinner  at  the  New  York  University 

fat 


PREFACE 

Club.  A  real  diary  suggested  another.  An  historical 
mystery  as  to  what  became  of  a  certain  cargo  of 
slaves  captured  by  Decatur  in  the  Mediterranean 
evoked  a  third.  Neglected  chapters  in  history  and 
biography  are  responsible  for  some  of  the  others,  as 
the  Martinique  tale,  for  the  Diamond  Rock  was  once 
a  ship  !  Sir  Henry  Irving's  marvellous  rendition  of 
Matthias  m  The  Bells  so  possessed  me  with  its  power 
that  after  I  came  home  from  the  theatre  I  could  not 
sleep  until  I  had  written  the  story.  All  of  these  tales 
represent  real  incidents,  therefore,  or  are  founded 
upon  them  in  some  way. 

Writing  a  short  story,  with  me  at  least,  is  very 
different  from  writing  a  novel.  I  can  invent  plots  of 
novels  without  the  slightest  difficulty,  but  the  making 
of  a  short  story  is  different.  The  making  is  a  case 
of  birth !  The  single  incident,  the  brief  condensed 
plot,  or  the  vivid  character  sketch  which  is  necessary 
to  a  proper  short  story  has  to  come  to  me  from 
outside.  The  short  story  is  the  product  of  inspiration, 
the  long  story  the  result  of  labor.  Perhaps,  therefore, 
there  is  more  truth  in  the  short  story  than  in  the  long 
— from  my  point  of  view. 

At  any  rate,  in  this  volume  are  two  kinds,  and  the 
readers  may  decide.  If  they  have  half  as  much  pleas- 
ure out  of  the  book  as  I  had,  they  will  thank  me  for 
having  written. 

C  T.  B. 

THE  LAKE  PLACID  CLUB, 
ADIRONDACK^,  NEW  YORK, 
June  1 6,  1902. 


CONTENTS 

PART    I 


WOVEN    WITH    THE    SHIP 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I. — THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  SHIP 9 

II. — His  LAST  COMMAND 16 

III. — THE  WOMAN  AND  THE  MAN  WHO  LOVED  HER    .    .  23 

IV. — CAST  UP  BY  THE  SEA 28 

V. — THE  RESCUE 36 

VI. — THE  WATER-WITCH 40 

VII. — THE  HOME  OF  THE  SEA-MAIDEN      50 

VIII. — "OLD  IRONSIDES" 57 

IX. — THE  SWORD  OF  THE  CONSTITUTION 65 

X. — FACING  WORLD-OLD  PROBLEMS 74 

XI. — BLOWS  AT  THE  HEART 80 

XII. — BROKEN  RESOLUTIONS 91 

XIII. — LOVE  HOLDS  THE  YOKE-LINES 103 

XIV. — IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  SHIP 117 

XV. — FORGIVENESS  THE  FIRST  LESSON 123 

XVI. — A  CLOUD  ON  THE  HORIZON 130 

XVII.— FREED! 136 

XVIII.— "BUT  YET  A  WOMAN" 143 

XIX. — THE  USUAL  COURSE 147 

XX. — RIVALS  MEETING 152 

XXI. — A  HAPPY  CONSUMMATION 160 

XXII. — "SAMSON  AGONISTES" 168 

L'ENVOI .' 180 

xi 


CONTENTS 

PART    II 


VERACIOUS    TALES    OF    VARIOUS    SORTS 

PAGE 

COUPS   DE  THEATRE 

A  VAUDEVILLE  TURN 187 

Comedy 

THE  LAST  TRIBUTE  TO  His  GENIUS 195 

Tragedy 

OUT   OF  THE  WEST 

IN  OKLAHOMA 205 

An  Idyl  of  the  Prairie  in  Three  Flights 

PASSING  THE  LOVE  OF  WOMAN 231 

The  End  of  a  Frontier  Tell 

WITH  GREAT  GUNS  AND  SMALL 

THE  FINAL  PROPOSITIONS 245 

A  Drama  of  the  Civil  War 

THE  CAPTAIN  OF  H.  B.  M.  SHIP  DIAMOND  ROCK  .   .   .    259 

The  Tale  of  a  Strange  Ship  off  Martinique 

"WHEN  LOVELY  WOMAN  STOOPS  TO  FOLLY" 278 

The  Fate  of  a  Coquette  of  1815 

SAVED  BY  HER  SLIPPER 293 

A  Romance  of  the  Border 

"  SONNY  BOY'S"  DIARY 315 

An  Incident  of  the  War  in  China 

EXTRAVAGANZAS 

THE  AMAZING  YARN  OF  THE  BO'S'N'S  MATE 331 

An  Account  of  an  Unusual  Prize 

THE  DISEMBODIED  SPIRIT 346 

The  Story  of  a  Wandering  Sensation 


xii 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


BY  MR.  HOWARD  CHANDLER  CHRISTY 

PAGE 

"Oh,  Captain  Barry,  you  must  do  something  !"     .    .  Frontispiece 

BY  MR.  H.  L.  V.  PARKHURST 
The  girl  boldly  sheered  the  boat  into  the  whirlpool 38 

Presently  the  man  was  stretched  out  upon  a  blanket  thrown  upon 

the  floor  of  Emily' s  room 43 

For  the  preliminary  stages  in  the  making  of  love  there  is  scarcely 
anything  that  is  so  delightful  ...  as  a  boat  just  large 
enough  for  two 91 

They  were  formally  presented  to  the  old  admiral 152 

BY  MR.  W.  GLACKENS 
'.'Papa!     Papa!"  she  cried,  "  take  me  home  !" 190 

BY  MR.  HOWARD  CHANDLER  CHRISTY 

The  surprised  horse  bounded  into  the  air  with  a  sudden  access  of 

vigor 224 

"  Say,  you  cowboy,  have  you  been  making  a  woman  cry?"   .    .    .     228 

BY  MR.  FRANK  X.  LEYENDECKER 

"One!"   said  the  old  soldier,  his  voice  ringing  hollow  through 

the  apartment 289 

BY  MR.  WILL  CRAWFORD 

"The  cap'n  he  chose  fer  Mr.  Parbuckle,  .   .  .  an'  a  mad  young 

officer  he  was,  too!" 343 

xiii 


Part  I 


WOVEN  WITH 
THE  SHIP 


WOVEN    WITH     THE    SHIP 

* 

CHAPTER    I 
THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  SHIP 

JUST  half  a  century  had  elapsed  since,  cutting 
down  the  virgin  forest  to  make  room  for  the 
ways,  they  laid  her  keel  blocks  in  the  clearing. 
With  the  cunning  brain  of  Henry  Eckford, 
one  of  the  greatest  of  our  shipbuilders,  to 
plan,  and    the   skilful   hands    of  the    New  England 
shipwrights  to  execute,  with  timber  cut  by  the  sturdy 
woodsmen  from  where  it  stood  in  the  forest,  the  giant 
frames  rose  apace,  until  presently,  in  an  incredibly 
short  time,  there  stood  upon  Ship   House   Point  a 
mighty  vessel  ready  for  the  launching. 

Ship  House  Point — so  called  from  the  ship — was 
a  long  ridge  of  land  sloping  gently  down  from  a  low 
hill  and  extending  far  out  into  Lake  Ontario.  It 
helped  to  enclose  on  one  side  a  commodious  lake 
haven  known  in  that  day,  and  ever  since,  as  Sewell's 
Harbor,  from  old  George  Sewell,  a  hunter,  fisher- 
man, innkeeper,  and  trader,  who  had  settled  there 
years  before. 

9 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

Thither,  in  the  busy  warlike  days  of  1813-14,  had 
resorted  dashing  naval  officers  in  their  ruffled  shirts, 
heavily  laced  blue  coats,  with  their  huge  cocked  hats, 
skin-tight  kersey  pantaloons,  and  tasselled  half  boots. 
In  their  wake  rolled  ancient  tars  in  blue  shirts  and 
flowing  trousers,  their  mouths  full  of  strange  oaths 
and  tales  of  distant  seas  ;  some  of  the  older  veterans 
among  them  still  wearing  their  hair  in  the  time-hon- 
ored pigtail  of  an  already  disappearing  age. 

On  the  bluff  across  the  harbor  mouth,  and  just 
opposite  to  Ship  House  Point,  a  rude  log  fort  had 
been  erected  in  1812,  a  central  block-house  and  a 
surrounding  stockade,  mounting  a  few  inconsiderable 
pieces  of  artillery.  From  a  tall  staff  on  the  parade 
the  stars  and  stripes  fluttered  in  the  wind,  and  nodded 
in  amicable  salute  toward  a  similar  ensign  which  the 
patriotic  builders  had  hoisted  on  the  Point. 

Government  storehouses  filled  with  munitions  and 
supplies  of  various  kinds,  both  for  the  naval  forces  on 
the  lakes  and  for  the  armies  designed  for  the  long 
projected  invasion  of  Canada  likewise,  stood  back  of 
the  wharves  crowded  with  the  miscellaneous  shipping 
of  the  suddenly  thriving  little  town.  Soldiers  from 
the  fort,  therefore,  in  blue  and  gray  uniforms  mingled 
with  the  ship-carpenters,  wood-cutters,  pioneers,  sail- 
ors, and  traders,  and  the  spot  speedily  became  one  of 
the  busiest  in  the  then  far  Northwest 

Sometimes  in  the  offing  the  white  sails  of  the  Eng- 
lish or  American  squadrons  could  be  seen,  and  on 
the  summer  days  from  the  distant  horizon  might  have 
been  heard  the  dull  boom  of  cannon  telling  a  tale  of 

10 


THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  SHIP 

some  spirited  engagement.  And  more  than  once 
thereafter  a  melancholy  and  shattered  ship  brought 
in  a  ghastly  cargo  of  dead,  dying,  and  wounded,  the 
care  of  which  heavily  taxed  the  resources  of  the  com- 
munity ;  and  the  women  of  the  village — for  there 
were  women  there  from  the  beginning — had  grim 
lessons,  learned  sometimes  through  breaking  hearts, 
that  war  was  a  more  serious  business  than  the  gay 
officers,  the  bright  uniforms,  the  beautiful  flags,  and 
the  brave  ships  had  indicated. 

The  town  had  sprung  into  being  around  Sewell's 
store  and  tavern,  amid  all  these  activities  and  under- 
takings, almost  as  if  by  magic — quite  as  the  great 
ship  had  risen  on  the  shore,  in  truth.  Men  did  things 
in  a  hurry  in  those  days,  and  no  one  was  much  sur- 
prised when,  some  thirty  days  after  the  keel  was  laid, 
the  indefatigable  Eckford  informed  stout  old  Com- 
modore Chauncey,  the  American  commander  on  the 
lakes,  that  the  Susquehanna — for  so  the  ship-of-the- 
line  which  was  to  establish  finally  the  American 
preponderance  of  force  over  the  British  on  Lake 
Ontario  was  called — was  ready  for  launching,  and 
great  preparations  were  made  in  the  very  early  spring 
of  1815  for  this  important  and  interesting  ceremony. 

A  few  days  before  the  appointed  time,  however, 
there  came  to  the  impatient  commodore,  the  perse- 
vering builder,  and  the  busy  workmen  a  messenger 
bearing  a  heartrending  despatch,  long  delayed  in 
transmission,  from  the  Secretary  of  the  Navy.  That 
official  announced  that  the  war  was  over,  that  peace 
with  England  had  been  declared  at  the  close  of  the 

ii 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

preceding  year,  and  directed  that  the  preparations 
for  launching  and  completing  the  vessel  must  be  at 
once  abandoned.  It  was  a  sore  grief  to  Eckford 
and  his  fellow-shipwrights,  a  great  disappointment  to 
Chauncey  and  his  brave  seamen,  and  a  terrible  blow 
to  the  thriving  town.  It  had  grown  and  flourished 
in  war,  and  it  was  to  languish  and  die  in  peace — a 
reversal  of  natural  law  apparently  !  But  there  was 
no  help  for  it.  The  orders  had  to  be  obeyed.  The 
war-ships  on  the  lakes  were  broken  up,  or  sold,  and 
a  few  were  laid  up  in  ordinary,  the  officers  and  men 
were  detached  to  the  more  congenial  salt-water  sta- 
tions, and  the  ship-carpenters  were  withdrawn  to  the 
seaboard  towns  whence  they  had  been  collected. 
The  fort  was  dismantled,  the  garrison  mustered  out 
of  the  service,  and  the  storehouses  emptied  and 
closed. 

The  young  ship-of-the-line,  hastily  housed  over, 
was  left  alone  with  the  abandoned  town.  The  busy 
place,  its  reasons  for  being  gone,  speedily  sank  into  a 
state  of  public  decay.  The  deserted  storehouses  fell 
into  ruin;  the  once  noisy  wharves,  unvisited  by  anysave 
an  occasional  small  vessel,  rotted  away ;  the  merchants 
and  traders  closed  out  their  stocks  and  departed  ;  the 
hunters  and  pioneers  moved  farther  westward  into 
the  vast  wilderness  extending  its  mysterious  beckon- 
ing call  to  their  adventurous  souls  ;  the  grass  grew 
thick  in  the  silent  streets,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the 
death-sentence  of  the  village  had  been  written. 

But  as  years  sped  away  some  of  its  pristine  life 
came  back  to  it  The  farmer  again  speeded  his  plow 


THE  BUILDING  or  THE  SHIP 

and  planted  his  corn  in  the  clearings.  Sheep  and 
cattle  once  more  dotted  the  fields.  A  new  order  took 
the  place  of  the  old.  Country  churches  rose  ;  little 
feet  plodded  unwillingly  toward  a  small  red  school- 
house,  where  childish  laughter  and  play  at  recess 
mingled  with  tears  over  puzzling  lessons  and  unsolva- 
ble  problems.  The  stores  were  opened  one  by  one, 
and  a  few  vessels  came  back  to  the  harbor.  On 
market  days  the  farmers  crowded  the  square  with 
their  teams,  the  village  awoke  from  its  long  sleep 
and  became  a  modestly  thriving  little  country  town 
again, — drowsing  on  into  life  once  more.  And  al- 
though the  very  oldest  inhabitants,  remembering  the 
busy  days  forever  gone,  were  not  satisfied,  the  younger 
people  were  content  and  happy  in  their  pretty  little 
hamlet. 

Meanwhile,  what  of  the  ship  in  all  these  changing 
years  ?  Time  was  when  Ship  House  Point  had  been 
covered  with  a  virgin  forest  extending  even  to  the 
water's  edge.  It  was  now  bare  of  trees,  for  the  mas- 
sive trunks  had  been  wrought  into  the  fabric  of  the 
ship,  and  no  others  had  come  to  take  their  places. 
There,  neglected  and  unnoticed,  she  had  stood  naked 
and  gaunt  for  a  long  time,  for  the  flimsy  ship-house 
covering  her  had  been  the  first  thing  to  go.  Through 
the  swift  years  the  burning  sunshine  of  many  sum- 
mers fell  upon  her  green,  unseasoned  planks,  and  the 
unsheltered  wood  shrinking  in  the  fierce  heat  opened 
her  seams  widely  on  every  hand.  Upon  her  decks 
the  rain  descended  and  the  snow  fell.  The  storms 
of  bitter  winters  drove  upon  her  in  successive  and 

13 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

relentless  attacks.  The  rough  spring  and  autumn 
gales  tore  from  her  huge  sections  of  timber,  leaving 
gaping  wounds,  while  the  drying  rot  of  time  and 
neglect  penetrated  her  very  heart. 

Rust  consumed  the  bolt-heads  and  slowly  ate  up 
the  metal  that  held  her  together.  Yet  in  spite  of  all 
she  still  stood,  outwardly  indifferent  alike  to  the 
attack  of  the  storm  or  the  kiss  of  the  sun, — a  mighty 
monster  towering  high  in  the  air,  unfinished,  incom- 
plete, inchoate,  disintegrating,  weaponless,  but  still 
typifying  strength  and  power  and  war.  In  spite  of 
her  decay,  in  spite  of  her  age,  she  looked  the  mas- 
terful vessel  she  was  designed  to  be. 

The  waves  broke  in  winter  in  icy  assault  upon  the 
rocky  shore  on  the  seaward  side,  as  if  defying  the 
ship  to  meet  them.  They  rippled  on  the  shoals,  on 
the  other  hand,  in  summer  with  tender  caressing 
voices,  wooing  her  to  her  native  element,  stretching 
out  white-fingered  hands  of  invitation.  And  the  air 
carried  the  message  of  the  waters  into  every  hidden 
recess  in  the  most  secret  depths  of  the  ship. 

In  some  strange  way,  to  those  who  grew  to 
know  her,  the  ship  seemed  to  live  ;  they  imbued  her 
with  personality,  and  congenial  spirits  seemed  to 
recognize  her  yearning  for  a  plunge  into  that  all-em- 
bracing inland  sea.  She  hung  poised,  as  it  were,  like 
a  bird  ready  for  flight,  and  watchers  standing  within 
her  shadow  divined  her  longing  for  that  mad  first 
rush  from  the  ways. 

The  ripple  of  the  water  had  never  curled  along 
that  ship's  massive  keel ;  her  broad  bows  had  never 

14 


THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  SHIP 

buffeted  a  way  through  the  thunderous  attack  of  the 
storm- waves  ;  she  had  never  felt  the  ocean  uplift ; 
the  long  pitch  and  toss,  the  unsteady  roll  and  heave 
which  spoke  of  water-borne  life  had  never  been  hers  ; 
yet,  looking  at  the  graceful  lines,  the  mighty  frames, 
the  most  unimaginative  would  have  said  that  the  old 
ship  lusted  for  the  sea,  and,  in  futile  and  ungratified 
desire,  passed  her  shore-bound  days  in  earth-spurning 
discontent. 


CHAPTER   II 


His  LAST  COMMAND 


Or  the  hill  back  of  the  Point,  embowered 
on  three  sides  in  the  trees,  which  had 
been  cut  away  in  front  to  afford  a  fair 
view  of  the  ship,  the  Point  itself,  and 
the  open  waters  of  the  lake  beyond, 
stood  an  old  white  house  facing  the  water,  with  a 
long  covered  porch,  high-pillared  and  lofty,  extending 
across  its  entire  front      Old,  yet  young  compared  to 
the  ship.     Overlooking  the  ship,  on  a  platform  on  the 
very  brow  of  the  hill,  a  long,  old-fashioned  six-pound 
gun  was  mounted  on  a  naval  carriage.     Back  of  the 
gun  rose  a  tall  flag-staff,  and  from  the  top  fluttered 
night  and  day  a  small  blue  flag  with  two  stars,  the 
ensign  of  a  rear-admiral.     There  were  no  masts  or 
spars  upon  the  ship  below  the  hill,  of  course,  but  aft 
from  the  mouldering  taffrail  a  staff  had  been  erected, 
and  from  it  flew  the  stars  and  stripes,  for  during  the 
last  half  of  her  existence  the  ship  had  rejoiced  in  a 
crew  and  a  captain  ! 

Some  twenty-five  years  since  a  quaint  old  naval 
officer  had  taken  up  his  abode  at  the  house  on  the 
hill.  With  him  had  come  a  young  sailor,  who,  dis- 
daining the  house,  had  slung  his  hammock  aboard 

16 


His  LAST  COMMAND 

the  ship, — finding  a  place  between  decks  which,  after 
a  few  repairs,  would  shelter  him  from  the  storms. 
When  the  old  officer  came,  he  hoisted  at  the  mast 
which  was  at  once  erected  in  the  yard  the  broad 
blue  pennant  of  a  commodore,  and  it  was  only  after 
Farragut  had  made  his  splendid  passage  up  the  Mis- 
sissippi, and  awakened  the  quiet  shores  of  the  Father 
of  Waters  with  the  thunder  of  his  guns,  so  that  the 
title  of  commodore  became  too  small  for  him,  that 
the  old  veteran  had  been  promoted  with  other  veter- 
ans— and  with  Farragut  himself — to  the  rank  of  rear- 
admiral,  recently  established, — certainly  a  rank  entirely 
in  consonance  with  his  merit  at  least. 

The  old  man  had  been  practically  forgotten,  lost 
sight  of,  in  the  glory  accruing  to  the  newer  names 
among  the  Civil  War  heroes  ;  yet  he  had  been  among 
the  foremost  in  that  great  galaxy  of  sailors  who  had 
made  the  navy  of  the  United  States  so  formidable  in 
the  War  of  1812. 

Old  men  of  the  town,  whose  memories  as  children 
ran  back  beyond  even  the  life  of  the  ship,  recalled 
having  seen,  in  those  busy,  unforgotten  days  of 
1814-15,  many  uniforms  like  to  the  quaint  old  dress 
which  the  admiral  sometimes  wore  on  occasions  of 
ceremony ;  and  there  were  some  yet  living  who 
remembered  the  day  when  the  news  came  that  the 
mighty  Constitution  had  added  to  her  record  the  last 
and  most  brilliant  of  her  victories  in  the  capture  of 
the  frigates  Cyane  and  Levant.  The  man  who  had 
made  the  capture — who,  when  his  wife  had  asked  him 
to  bring  her  a  British  frigate  for  a  present  when  he 

17 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

set  forth  upon  the  cruise,  had  answered  that  he  would 
bring  her  two,  and  who  had  done  it — was  the  man 
who  had  been  stationed  in  the  white  house  on  the 
hill  to  watch  over  the  old  ship. 

The  battles  and  storms,  the  trials  and  cares,  the 
sorrows  and  troubles  of  eighty-five  years  had  beat 
upon  that  white  head  ;  and  though  he  was  now  bent 
and  broken,  though  he  tottered  as  he  paced  up  and 
down  the  porch  after  the  habit  of  the  quarter-deck, 
though  his  eye  was  dim  indeed  and  his  natural  force 
greatly  abated,  he  was  still  master  of  himself.  When 
the  Civil  War  broke  out  his  brave  old  soul  had 
yearned  to  be  upon  a  heaving  deck  once  more,  he 
had  craved  to  hear  the  roar  of  guns  from  the  mighty 
batteries  beneath  his  feet,  to  feel  again  the  kiss  of 
the  salt  wind  upon  his  tanned  and  weather-beaten 
cheek.  He  had  longed  in  the  deadly  struggle  of 
'6i-'65  to  strike  another  blow  for  the  old  flag  he  had 
done  so  much  to  make  formidable  and  respected  on 
the  sea ;  but  it  was  not  to  be.  Superannuated,  old, 
laid  up  in  ordinary,  he  quietly  watched  over  the  rot- 
ting ship  which  was  his  last  command. 

In  some  strange  way,  with  a  sailor's  superstition, 
as  the  years  had  passed,  as  he  had  grown  feebler  and 
the  ship  had  grown  older,  he  bound  up  his  own  term 
of  life  with  that  of  the  vessel.  While  it  stood  he 
should  live,  when  it  fell  should  come  his  end.  He 
watched  and  waited. 

When  the  night  threatened  to  be  wild  and  stormy, 
the  report  of  the  evening  gun  with  which  Captain 
Barry  invariably  saluted  the  flag  ere  he  struck  it 

18 


His  LAST  COMMAND 

would  seem  to  him  the  sounding  of  his  death-knell. 
When  the  tempest  howled  around  the  old  house,  he 
could  hear,  in  fancy,  above  its  wild  screaming  the 
crashing  of  the  timbers  of  the  ship  falling  in  shape- 
less ruins  on  the  mouldering  ways.  In  the  morning, 
after  such  a  night,  he  would  rise  and  creep  to  the 
door,  totter  out  on  the  porch  with  the  aid  of  his  cane, 
and  peer  down  on  the  ship.  Some  portion  of  it 
might  have  been  swept  away,  perhaps,  but  if  it  still 
stood  he  would  feel  that  he  had  a  respite  for  another 
day. 

Many  a  tall  vessel  had  he  commanded,  many  a 
gallant  frigate  or  great  ship-of-the-line  he  had  driven 
through  the  tempestuous  seas.  Upon  some  of  them, 
as  on  the  Constitution,  he  had  won  eternal  fame,  yet 
never  had  he  loved  a  vessel  as  his  heart  had  gone  out 
to  the  rotting  mass  of  this  incompleted  ship. 

He  did  not  dream,  when  he  came  there  twenty-five 
years  before — an  old  man  then — that  either  he  or  the 
ship  would  last  so  long ;  yet  there  they  both  stood  ; 
older,  weaker,  feebler,  more  broken,  and  breaking 
with  every  passing  hour,  but  still  a  ship  and  still  a 
captain. 

During  the  years  of  their  association  the  admiral 
had  unconsciously  invested  the  ship  with  a  person- 
ality of  its  own.  It  seemed  human  to  him.  He 
dreamed  about  it  when  he  slept.  He  was  never  so 
happy  as  when  awake  he  sat  and  watched  it.  He 
talked  to  it  like  a  friend  when  they  were  alone. 
Sometimes  he  reached  his  old  trembling  hand  out  to 
it  in  a  caressing  gesture.  He  had  long  since  grown 

19 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

too  feeble  to  go  down  to  it ;  he  could  only  look  upon 
it  from  afar.  Yet  he  understood  its  longing,  its  dis- 
satisfaction, its  despair.  A  certain  sympathy  grew  up 
between  them.  He  loved  it  as  it  had  been  a  woman. 
He  would  fain  have  kissed  its  keel. 

Yet  the  devotion  the  admiral  felt  for  the  ship  was 
scarcely  greater  than  that  which  had  sprung  up  in 
the  heart  of  the  old  sailor  who  lived  aboard  it. 

Old  John  Barry  had  been  a  quartermaster  on  the 
Constitution,  and  had  followed  the  fortunes  of  his 
captain  from  ship  to  ship,  from  shore  to  shore,  until 
he  died.  After  that  the  duty  of  looking  after  the 
captain  devolved  upon  his  son,  young  John  Barry ; 
and  when  the  commodore  had  been  ordered  to  Ship 
House  Point,  more  with  the  intention  of  providing 
him  with  a  congenial  home  for  his  declining  years 
than  for  any  other  purpose,  young  John  Barry  had 
followed  him. 

Young  John  Barry  he  was  no  longer.  He  was 
fifty  years  old  now,  and,  like  the  admiral,  had  uncon- 
sciously made  the  life  of  the  ship  stand  for  his  own 
life  as  well.  The  witchery  of  disappointment  and 
regret,  pregnant  in  every  timber,  bore  hard  upon  him 
also.  He  had  been  a  gay,  dashing,  buoyant,  happy- 
go-lucky  jack-tar  in  his  day ;  but,  living  alone  on 
that  great  old  ship,  some  of  the  melancholy,  some  of 
the  dissatisfaction,  some  of  the  longing,  some  of  the 
futile  desire  which  fairly  reeked  from  every  plank  had 
entered  his  own  rough  and  rugged  soul. 

The  bitter  wind  had  sung  through  the  timbers  of 
the  ship  too  many  tales  of  might-have-been,  as  he  lay 

20 


His  LAST  COMMAND 

in  his  hammock  night  after  night,  not  to  have  left  its 
impression  upon  him.  He  became  a  silent,  taciturn, 
grave  old  man.  Of  huge  bulk  and  massive  build,  his 
appearance  suggested  the  ship-of-the-line, — strength 
in  age,  power  in  decay.  He  loved  the  ship  in  his 
way  even  as  the  admiral  did. 

Risking  his  life  in  the  process,  he  climbed  all  over 
it,  marking  with  skilful  eyes  and  pained  heart  the 
slow  process  of  disintegration.  He  did  not  kiss  it, — 
kisses  were  foreign  to  his  nature,  he  knew  nothing  of 
them, — but  he  laid  his  great  hands  caressingly  upon 
the  giant  frames,  he  pressed  his  cheek  against  the 
mighty  prow,  he  stretched  himself  with  open  arms 
upon  the  bleaching  deck,  as  if  he  would  embrace  the 
ship. 

When  the  storms  beat  upon  it  in  the  night,  he 
sometimes  made  his  way  forward  and  stood  upon  the 
forecastle  fronting  the  gale,  and  as  the  wind  swept 
over  him  and  the  ship  quivered  and  shook  and  vi- 
brated under  the  tempestuous  attack,  he  fancied  that 
he  felt  the  deck  heave  as  it  might  under  the  motion 
of  the  uptossed  wave. 

He  dreamed  that  the  ship  quivered  in  the  long 
rush  of  the  salt  seas.  Then  the  rain  beat  upon  him 
unheeded.  Wrapped  in  his  great-coat  in  winter,  he 
even  disdained  the  driving  snow,  and  as  he  stood  by 
the  weather  cathead,  from  which  no  anchor  had  ever 
depended,  and  peered  out  into  the  whirling  darkness, 
he  seemed  to  hear  the  roar  of  a  breaker  ahead  ! 

The  ship  was  his  own,  his  property.  The  loss  of  a 
single  plank,  the  giving  way  of  a  single  bolt,  was 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

like  the  loss  of  a  part  of  himself.  With  it  he  lived, 
with  it  he  would  die.  Alone  he  passed  his  nights  in 
the  hollow  of  that  echo  of  the  past.  Sometimes  he 
felt  half  mad  in  the  rotting  vessel ;  yet  nothing  could 
have  separated  him  from  the  ship. 

The  little  children  of  the  adjacent  village  feared 
him,  although  he  had  never  harmed  any  of  them, 
and  was  as  gentle  as  a  mother  in  his  infrequent 
dealings  with  them  all ;  but  he  was  so  silent,  so  grave, 
so  grim,  so  weird  in  some  way,  that  they  instinctively 
avoided  him.  Their  light  laughter  was  stifled,  their 
childish  play  was  quieted  when  Captain  Barry — so 
they  called  him — passed  by.  He  never  noticed  it, 
or,  if  he  did,  he  gave  no  sign.  Indeed,  his  heart  was 
so  wrapped  up  in  a  few  things  that  he  marked  nothing 
else. 

The  old  admiral,  whom  he  watched  over  and  cared 
for  with  the  fidelity  of  a  dog, — nay,  I  should  say  of  a 
sailor, — was  the  earliest  object  of  his  affections.  To 
look  after  him  was  a  duty  which  had  become  the  habit 
of  his  life.  He  cherished  him  in  his  heart  along  with 
the  ship.  When  the  others  had  gone  to  their  rest,  he 
often  climbed  up  on  the  quarter-deck,  if  the  night  were 
still,  and  sat  late  in  the  evening  staring  at  the  lights  in 
the  house  on  the  hill  until  they  went  out,  musing  in  his 
quaint  way  on  the  situation.  When  the  days  were 
calm  he  thought  first  of  the  admiral,  in  stormy  times 
first  of  the  ship.  But  above  both  ship  and  captain  in 
his  secret  heart  there  was  another  who  completed  the 
strange  quartet  on  Ship  House  Point, — a  woman. 

Above  duty  and  habit  there  is  always  a  woman. 


CHAPTER   III 


THE  WOMAN  AND  THE  MAN  WHO  LOVED  HER 


I 


wife  of  the  admiral,  to  whom  he 
had  brought  the  flags  of  the  two  British 
ships  on  that  memorable  cruise,  had 
long  since  departed  this  life.  Her 
daughter,  too,  who  had  married  some- 
what late  in  life,  had  died  in  giving  birth  to  a  girl, 
and  this  little  maiden,  Emily  Sanford  by  name,  in 
default  of  other  haven  or  nearer  relationship,  had 
been  brought,  when  still  an  infant  in  arms,  to  the 
white  house  on  the  hill,  to  be  taken  care  of  by  the 
old  admiral.  In  the  hearts  of  both  the  old  men  she 
divided  affection  with  the  ship. 

With  the  assistance  of  one  of  the  admiral's  distant 
connections,  a  faithful  old  woman,  also  passed  to  the 
enjoyment  of  her  reward  long  since,  Emily  Sanford 
had  been  carried  through  the  troubles  and  trials 
incident  to  early  childhood.  At  first  she  had  gone 
with  other  little  children  to  the  quaint  red  school- 
house  in  the  village.  She  had  been  a  regular  attend- 
ant until  she  had  exhausted  its  limited  capacity  for 
imparting  knowledge.  After  that  the  admiral,  a  man 
of  keen  intelligence,  of  world-wide  observation,  and 
of  a  deeply  reflective  habit  of  mind,  had  completed 

23 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

her  education  himself,  upon  such  old-fashioned  lines 
as  his  experience  suggested.  She  had  been  an  apt 
pupil  indeed,  and  the  results  reflected  great  credit 
upon  his  sound,  if  somewhat  unusual,  methods  of 
training,  or  would  have  reflected  had  there  been 
any  one  to  see. 

In  all  her  life  Emily  Sanford  had  never  been  away 
from  her  grandfather  for  a  single  day ;  she  had  ac- 
tually never  left  that  little  town,  and,  except  in  school- 
time,  she  had  not  often  left  the  Point.  Although  just 
out  of  her  teens,  she  was  not  old  enough  to  have  be- 
come discontented — not  yet.  She  was  as  childlike, 
as  innocent,  as  unworldly  and  unsophisticated  a  maiden 
as  ever  lived, — and  beautiful  as  well.  It  was  Prospero 
and  Miranda  translated  to  the  present.  The  old  ad- 
miral adored  his  granddaughter.  If  the  ship  was  his 
Nemesis,  Emily  was  his  fortune. 

As  for  Barry  the  sailor, — and  it  were  injustice  to  the 
brave  old  seaman  to  think  of  him  as  Caliban, — he  wor- 
shipped the  ground  the  girl  walked  on.  He  was  in 
love  with  her.  A  rude  old  man  of  fifty  in  love  with 
a  girl  of  twenty ;  a  girl  immeasurably  above  him  in 
birth,  station,  education — in  everything  !  It  was  sur- 
prising !  Had  any  one  known  it,  however,  it  would 
not  have  seemed  grotesque, — only  pitiful.  Barry  him- 
self did  not  know  it.  He  was  too  humble  and  too 
ignorant  for  self-examination,  for  subtle  analysis.  He 
loved,  and  he  did  not  comprehend  the  meaning  of 
the  word  !  Even  the  wisest  fail  to  solve  the  mysteries 
of  the  heart. 

Although  the  veteran  seaman  was  too  ignorant  of 
24 


THE  WOMAN  AND  THE  MAN  WHO  LOVED  HER 

love  rightly  to  characterize  his  passion,  it  was  never- 
theless a  true  one.  It  was  not  the  feeling  of  a  father, 
nor  of  a  companion,  nor  yet  that  of  a  servant,  though 
it  partook  in  some  measure  of  all  three.  That  was 
an  evidence  of  the  genuineness  of  his  feeling.  Nothing 
noble,  no  feeling  that  is  high,  self-sacrificing,  devoted, 
is  foreign  to  love  that  is  true,  and  love  is  the  most 
comprehensive  of  the  passions — it  is  a  complete  ob- 
session. Captain  Barry  would  have  given  his  soul 
for  Emily  Sanford's  happiness,  and  rejoiced  in  the 
bestowal. 

He  cherished  no  hopes,  held  no  aspirations,  dreamed 
no  dreams  concerning  any  future  relationship.  He 
was  just  possessed  with  an  inexplicable  feeling  for  her. 
A  feeling  that  expected  nothing,  that  asked  nothing, 
that  hoped  for  nothing  but  the  steady  happiness  of 
being  near  her.  To  be  in  sight,  in  sound,  in  touch, 
that  was  all,  that  was  enough.  The  sea  in  calmer 
mood  gives  no  suggestion  of  potential  storms. 
Barry's  love  was  the  acme  of  self-abnegation.  If  he 
had  ever  reached  the  covetous  point  he  would  have 
realized  that  she  was  not  for  him.  He  never  did. 

He  loved  her  with  a  love  beside  which  even  his  de- 
votion to  the  old  admiral,  the  passionate  affection  he 
bore  for  the  old  ship,  were  trifles.  The  girl  had 
grown  into  his  heart.  Many  a  time  he  had  carried 
her  about  in  his  arms  when  she  was  a  baby.  He  had 
played  with  her  as  a  child  ;  she  could  always  call  a 
smile  to  his  lips  ;  he  had  cared  for  her  as  a  young 
girl,  he  had  served  her  as  a  woman. 

He,  too,  had  been  happy  to  contribute  to  her  edu- 
25 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

cation  as  he  had  been  able.  There  was  a  full-rigged 
model  of  the  Susquehanna  in  her  room  in  the  white 
house.  He  had  made  it  for  her.  It  was  a  perfect 
replica,  complete,  finished  in  every  detail ;  so  the  ship 
might  have  looked  if  she  had  ever  been  put  in  com- 
mission. Emily  knew  every  rope,  every  sheet,  line,  and 
brace  upon  it.  She  could  knot  and  splice,  box  the 
compass,  and  every  sailor's  weather  rhyme  was  fa- 
miliar to  her.  She  could  handle  a  sail-boat  as  well  as 
he,  and  with  her  strong  young  arms  pulled  a  beauti- 
ful man-o'-war  stroke.  He  had  taught  her  all  these 
things.  When  study  hours  were  over  and  play-time 
began,  the  two  together  had  explored  the  coast-line 
for  miles  in  every  direction. 

So  far  as  possible  he  had  gratified  every  wish  that 
she  expressed.  If  a  flower  grew  upon  the  face  of  an 
inaccessible  cliff  and  she  looked  at  it  with  a  carelessly 
covetous  glance,  he  got  it  for  her,  even  at  the  risk  of 
his  life.  He  followed  her  about,  when  she  permitted, 
as  a  great  Newfoundland  dog  might  have  done,  and 
was  ever  ready  at  her  beck  and  call.  His  feeling  to- 
wards her  was  of  so  exalted  a  character  that  he  never 
ventured  upon  the  slightest  familiarity  ;  he  would  have 
recoiled  from  such  an  idea  ;  yet  had  there  been  any  to 
mark,  they  might  have  seen  him  fondle  the  hem  of 
her  dress,  lay  his  bronzed  cheek  upon  her  footprint 
in  the  sands,  when  he  could  do  so  without  her 
knowing  it. 

There  was  no  man  in  the  village  with  whom  Emily 
could  associate  on  terms  of  equality.  The  admiral 
had  come  from  a  proud  old  family,  and  all  its  pride  of 

26 


THE  WOMAN  AND  THE  MAN  WHO  LOVED  HER 

birth  and  station  was  concentrated  in  his  last  de- 
scendant. Simply  as  she  had  been  reared,  she  could 
not  stoop  to  association  with  any  beneath  the  best ;  it 
was  part  of  her  grandfather's  training.  He  was  of  a 
day  when  democratic  iconoclasm  was  confined  to 
state  papers,  and  aristocracy  still  ruled  the  land  by 
right  divine,  even  though  the  forms  of  government 
were  ostensibly  republican.  There  were  some  quaint 
old  novels  in  the  library,  which  the  girl  had  read  and 
re-read,  however,  and,  as  she  was  a  woman,  she  had 
dreamed  of  love  and  lovers  from  over  the  sea,  and 
waited. 

Her  life,  too,  had  been  bound  up  with  the  ship. 
Not  that  she  feared  an  end  when  it  ended,  but  she 
often  wondered  what  would  happen  to  her  when  it  fell. 
What  would  she  do  when  the  admiral  was  gone? 
And  Captain  Barry  also  ?  Who  would  take  care  of 
her  then  ?  What  would  her  life  be  in  that  great  world 
of  which  she  dreamed  beyond  that  sparkling  wave-lit 
circle  of  the  horizon  ?  Who  would  care  for  her  then  ? 
That  lover  who  was  coming  ?  Ah,  well,  time  would 
bring  him.  Somewhere  he  lived,  some  day  he  would 
appear.  With  the  light-heartedness  of  youth  she  put 
the  future  by  and  lived  happily,  if  expectantly,  in  the 
present. 


27 


CHAPTER   IV 


CAST  UP  BY  THE  SEA 


OtfE  early  autumn  evening  in  1865  the  sun 
sank  dull  and  coppery  behind  banks  of 
black  clouds  which  held  ominous  portent 
of  a  coming  storm.    The  old  admiral  sat 
in  a  large  arm-chair  on  the  porch  leaning 
his  chin  upon  his  cane,  peering  out  toward  the  hori- 
zon where  the  distant  waters  already  began  to  crisp 
and  curl  in  white  froth  against  the  blackness  beyond. 
Emily,  a  neglected  book  in  her  lap,  sat  on  the  steps 
of  the  porch  at  his  feet,  idly  gazing  seaward.     The 
sharp  report  of  the  sunset  gun  on  the  little  platform 
on  the  brow  of  the  hill  had  just  broken  the  oppres- 
sive  stillness  which    preceded  the  outburst  of   the 
tejnpest. 

Having  carefully  secured  the  piece  with  the  thor- 
oughness of  a  seaman  to  whom  a  loose  gun  is  a 
potential  engine  of  terrible  destruction,  Barry  ran 
rapidly  down  the  hill,  clambered  up  on  the  high  poop 
of  the  ship,  and  hauled  down  the  colors.  As  the  flag, 
looking  unusually  bright  and  brave  against  the  dark 
background  of  the  cloud-shrouded  sky,  came  floating 
down,  the  admiral  rose  painfully  to  his  feet  and  bared 
his  gray  hairs  in  reverent  salute.  Emily  had  been 

28 


CAST  up  BY  THE  SEA 

trained  like  the  rest,  and,  following  the  admiral's  ex- 
ample, she  laid  aside  her  book  and  stood  gracefully 
erect,  buoyant,  and  strong  by  her  grandfather's  side. 

Old  age  and  bright  youth,  the  past  with  its  history, 
memories,  and  associations,  the  future  with  all  its  pos- 
sibilities and  dreams,  alike  saluted  the  flag. 

They  made  a  pretty  picture,  thought  Captain 
Barry,  as  he  unbent  the  flag,  belayed  the  halliards, 
and  gathered  up  the  folds  of  bunting  upon  the  deck, 
rolling  the  colors  into  a  small  bundle  which  he  placed 
in  a  chest  standing  against  the  rail  at  the  foot  of  the 
staff  It  was  a  nightly  ceremony  which  had  not  been 
intermitted  since  the  two  came  to  the  Point.  Some- 
times the  admiral  was  unable  to  be  present  when  the 
flag  was  formally  hoisted  in  the  morning,  but  it  was 
rare  indeed  that  night,  however  inclement  the  weather, 
did  not  find  him  on  the  porch  at  evening  colors. 

The  smoke  of  the  discharge  and  the  faint  acrid 
smell  of  the  powder — both  pleasant  to  the  veterans — 
yet  lingered  in  the  still  air  as  Barry  came  up  the  hill. 
He  stopped  before  the  foot  of  the  porch,  stood  with 
his  legs  far  apart,  as  if  balancing  to  the  roll  of. -a 
ship,  knuckled  his  forehead  in  true  sailor-like  fashion, 
and  solemnly  reported  that  the  colors  were  down. 
The  admiral  acknowledged  the  salute  and,  in  a  voice 
still  strong  in  spite  of  his  great  age,  followed  it  with 
his  nightly  comment  and  question  : 

"Ay,  Barry,  and  handsomely  done.  How  is  the 
ship  ?" 

"  She's  all  right,  your  honor." 

"Nothing  more  gone?" 
29 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

"  No,  sir." 

"  I  thought  I  heard  a  crash  last  night  in  the  gale." 

"  Not  last  night,  sir.  Everything's  all  ship-shape, 
leastways  just  as  it  was  since  that  last  piece  of  the 
to' gallant  fo'k'sl  was  carried  away  last  week." 

"That's  good,  Barry.  I  suppose  she's  rotting 
though,  still  rotting." 

"Ay,  ay,  sir,  she  is;  an'  some  of  the  timbers  you 
can  stick  your  finger  into." 

"But  she's  sound  at  the  heart,  Captain  Barry," 
broke  in  Emily,  cheerily. 

"  Sound  at  the  heart,  Miss  Emily,  and  always  will 
be,  I  trust." 

"Ay,  lassie,"  said  the  old  admiral,  "we  be  all 
sound  at  the  heart,  we  three  ;  but  when  the  dry  rot 
gets  into  the  timber,  sooner  or  later  the  heart  is 
bound  to  go.  Now,  to-night,  see  yonder,  the  storm 
is  approaching.  How  the  wind  will  rack  the  old 
timbers  !  I  lie  awake  o'  nights  and  hear  it  howling 
around  the  corners  of  the  house  and  wait  for  the 
sound  of  the  crashing  of  the  old  ship.  I've  heard  the 
singing  of  the  breeze  through  the  top-hamper  many  a 
time,  and  have  gone  to  sleep  under  it  when  a  boy ; 
but  the  wind  here,  blowing  through  the  trees  and 
about  the  ship,  gets  into  my  very  vitals.  Some  of  it 
will  go  to-night,  and  I  shall  be  nearer  the  snug  harbor 
aloft  in  the  morning." 

"Oh,  don't  say  that,  grandfather!  Sound  at  the 
heart,  the  old  ship  will  brave  many  a  tempest,  and 
you  will,  as  well." 

"  Ay,  girl,  but  not  many  like  yonder  brewing  storm. 
30 


CAST  UP  BY  THE  SEA 

Old  things  are  for  still  days,  not  for  tempests.  What 
think  ye  of  the  prospect,  Barry?" 

"  It's  got  an  ugly  look,  your  honor,  in  the  nor' west 
There's  wind  a  plenty  in  them  black  clouds.  I  wish 
we'd  a  good  frigate  under  us  and  plenty  o'  sea  room. 
I  lies  on  the  old  ship  sometimes  an'  feels  her  shiver 
in  the  gale  as  if  she  was  ashamed  to  be  on  shore. 
That'll  be  a  hard  blow,  sir." 

"  Ay,"  said  the  admiral,  "  I  remember  it  was  just  such 
a  night  as  this  once  when  I  commanded  the  Columbus. 
She  was  a  ship-of-the-line,  Emily,  pierced  for  one 
hundred  guns,  and  when  we  came  into  the  Mediter- 
ranean Admiral  Dacres  told  me  that  he  had  never 
seen  such  a  splendid  ship.  I  was  uneasy  and  could 
not  sleep, — good  captains  sleep  lightly,  child, — so  I 
came  on  deck  about  two  bells  in  the  mid-watch. 
Young  Farragut,  God  bless  him  !  was  officer  of  the 
watch.  The  night  was  calm  and  quiet  but  very  dark. 
It  was  black  as  pitch  off  to  starboard.  There  was 
not  a  star  to  be  seen.  '  Mr.  Farragut,'  I  said,  'you'd 
better  get  the  canvas  off  the  ship.'  Just  then  a  little 
puff  struck  me  in  the  cheek,  and  there  was  a  sort 
of  a  deep  sigh  in  the  still  night.  Barry,  your  father, 
old  John,  was  at  the  wheel,  and  a  better  hand  at 
steering  a  ship  I  never  saw.  '  Call  all  hands,  sir,'  I 
said,  sharply,  '  we've  no  time  to  spare,'  and  by  gad, 
— excuse  me,  Emily, — we'd  no  more  than  settled 
away  the  halliards  when  the  squall  struck  us.  If 
it  hadn't  been  for  the  quick  handling  and  ready 
seamanship  of  that  youngster,  and  I  saw  that  he 
was  master  of  the  thing  and  let  him  have  his  own 

31 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

way,  we'd  have  gone  down  with  all  standing.     As 
it  was " 

The  speech  of  the  old  man  was  interrupted  by  a 
vivid  flash  of  lightning,  followed  by  a  distant  clap  of 
thunder.  In  another  moment  the  black  water  of  the 
lake  was  churned  into  foam,  and  the  wind  swept  upon 
them  with  the  violence  of  a  hurricane.  As  soon  as 
the  storm  burst  forth,  Barry  sprang  upon  the  porch 
to  assist  the  old  admiral  into  the  house. 

"No,"  he  said;  "I'm  feeling  rather  well  this 
evening.  Let  me  face  the  storm  awhile.  Fetch  me 
my  heavy  cloak.  That's  well.  Now  pull  the  chair 
forward  where  I  can  get  it  full  and  strong.  How 
good  it  feels  !  'Tis  like  old  times,  man.  Ah,  if 
there  were  only  a  touch  of  salt  in  the  gale  !" 

Closely  wrapped  in  a  heavy  old-fashioned  boat 
cloak  which  Barry  brought  him,  he  sat  down  near  the 
railing  of  the  porch,  threw  up  his  old  head,  and  drank 
in  the  fresh  gale  with  long  breaths  which  brought 
with  them  pleasant  recollections.  The  sailor  stood 
on  one  side  of  the  veteran,  Emily  on  the  other ; 
youth  and  strength,  man  and  woman,  at  the  service 
of  feeble  age. 

"  See  the  ship  !"  muttered  the  old  man  ;  "  how  she 
sways,  yet  she  rides  it  out !  Up  with  the  helm  !" 
he  cried,  suddenly,  as  if  she  were  in  a  seaway  with 
the  canvas  on  her.  "  Force  your  head  around  to  it, 
ye  old  witch  !  Drive  into  it !  You're  good  for  many 
a  storm  yet.  Bless  me,"  he  added,  presently,  "I 
forgot ;  yet  'tis  still  staunch.  Ha,  ha  !  Sound  at  the 
heart,  and  will  weather  many  a  tempest  yet !" 

32 


CAST  up  BY  THE  SEA 

"Oh,  grandfather,  what's  that?"  cried  the  girl; 
"  look  yonder  !" 

She  left  the  side  of  the  admiral,  sprang  to  the  edge 
of  the  porch,  and  pointed  far  out  over  the  lake.  A 
little  sloop,  its  mainsail  close  reefed,  was  beating  in 
toward  the  harbor.  The  twilight  had  so  far  faded  in 
the  storm  that  at  the  distance  from  them  the  boat 
then  was  they  could  scarcely  distinguish  more  than 
a  slight  blur  of  white  upon  the  water.  But,  flying 
toward  them  before  the  storm,  she  was  fast  rising 
into  view. 

"Where  is  it,  child?"  asked  the  old  man,  looking 
out  into  the  growing  darkness. 

"  There  !  Let  your  eye  range  across  the  ship  ; 
there,  beyond  the  Point.  She's  running  straight  upon 
the  sunken  rocks.." 

"I  sees  it,  Miss  Emily,"  cried  Barry,  shading  his 
eyes  with  his  hand  ;  "  'tis  a  yacht,  the  mains' 1's  close 
reefed.  She  looks  like  a  toy.  There's  a  man  in  it. 
He's  on  the  port  tack,  thinkin'  to  make  the  harbor 
without  goin'  about." 

"  He'll  never  do  it,"  cried  the  girl,  her  voice  shrill 
with  apprehension.  "  He  can't  see  the  sunken  ledge 
running  out  from  the  Point.  He's  a  stranger  to  these 
waters,  evidently." 

"  I  see  him,  too,"  said  the  admiral.  "  God,  what  a 
storm  !  How  he  handles  that  boat  !  The  man's  a 
sailor,  every  inch  of  him  !" 

The  cutter  was  nearer  now,  so  near  that  the  man 
could  easily  be  seen.  She  was  coming  in  with  racing 
speed  in  spite  of  her  small  spread  of  canvas.  The 
3  33 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

lake  was  roaring  all  about  her  and  the  wind  threatened 
to  rip  the  mast  out  of  the  little  boat,  but  the  man 
held  her  up  to  it  with  consummate  skill,  evidently  ex- 
pecting to  gain  an  entrance  to  the  harbor,  where 
safety  lay,  on  his  present  tack.  This  he  could  easily 
have  done  had  it  not  been  for  a  long,  dangerous  ledge 
of  sunken  rocks  which  extended  out  beyond  Ship 
House  Point.  Being  under  water,  it  gave  little  sign 
of  its  presence  to  a  mariner  until  one  was  right 
upon  it  In  his  excitement  the  admiral  scrambled 
to  his  feet,  stepped  to  the  rail  of  the  porch,  and  stood 
leaning  over  it.  Presently  he  hollowed  his  hand  and 
shouted  with  a  voice  of  astonishing  power  for  so  old  a 
man  : 

"Down  with  your  helm,  boy  !     Hard  down  !" 

But  the  stranger,  of  course,  could  not  hear  him, 
and  the  veteran  stood  looking  with  a  grave  frown 
upon  his  face  as  that  human  life,  down  on  the  waters 
beneath  him,  struggled  for  existence.  It  was  not  the 
first  time  he  had  watched  life  trembling  in  the  balance 
— no  ;  nor  seen  it  go  in  the  end.  Emily's  voice 
broke  in  murmurs  of  prayer,  while  Barry  stared  like 
the  admiral. 

Presently  the  man  in  the  boat  glanced  up  and 
caught  sight  of  the  party.  He  was  very  near  now 
and  coming  on  gallantly.  He  waved  his  hand,  and 
was  astonished  to  see  them  frantically  gesture  back 
at  him.  A  warning  !  What  could  their  movements 
mean? 

He  peered  ahead  into  the  growing  darkness ;  the 
way  seemed  to  be  clear,  yet  something  was  evidently 

34 


CAST  UP  BY  THE  SEA 

wrong.  What  could  it  be  ?  Ah !  He  could  not 
weather  the  Point.  With  a  seaman's  quick  decision, 
he  jammed  the  helm  over. 

"  Oh,  grandfather  !"  screamed  Emily  in  the  old 
man's  ear  ;  "  can't  something  be  done  ?" 

"  Nothing,  child  ;  nothing  !  He  can't  hear,  he  can't 
see,  he  does  not  know." 

"  It's  awful  to  see  him  rush  smilingly  down  to 
certain  death  !"  exclaimed  the  girl,  wringing  her 
hands.  "Captain  Barry,  can't  you  do  something?" 

"There  goes  his  helm,"  said  the  admiral;  "he 
realizes  it  at  last.  About  he  goes  !  Too  late  1  too 
late  !" 

"  Oh,  Captain  Barry,  you  must  do  something !" 
cried  Emily. 

"There's  nothin'  to  do,  Miss  Emily." 

"Yes,  there  is.  We'll  get  the  boat,"  she  answered, 
springing  from  the  steps  as  she  spoke  and  running 
down  the  hill  like  a  young  fawn.  The  sailor  instantly 
followed  her,  and  in  a  moment  they  disappeared  under 
the  lee  of  the  ship. 


35 


CHAPTER   V 


THE  RESCUE 


Aie    practised    eye    of  the    admiral   had 
seen,  the  tiny  yacht  was  too  near  the 
rocks  to  go  about  and  escape  them. 
She  was  caught  in  the  trough  of  the 
sea  before  she  had  gathered  way  on 
the  other  tack,  and  flung  upon  the  sunken   ledge, 
broadside  on.     The  mast  snapped  like  a  pipe-stem. 
After  a  few  violent  shocks  she  was  hurled  over  on  her 
beam  ends,  lodged  securely  on  the  rocks,  and  began 
to  break   up   under  the  beating  of  the    angry  sea. 
A  few  moments  and  she  would  be  beaten  to  pieces. 
The  man  was  still  there,  however,  the  water  breaking 
over  him.     He  seemed  to  have  been  hurt,  but  clung 
tenaciously  to  the  wreck  of  the  boat  until  he  recovered 
himself  a  little,  and  then  rose  slowly  and  stood  gazing 
upon  the  tossing  waters,  seething  and  whirling  about 
the  wreck  of  his  boat 

There  was,  during  high  winds,  a  dangerous  whirlpool 
right  in  front  of  the  reefs  and  extending  between 
them  and  the  smooth  waters  of  the  harbor.  The 
water  was  beating  over  the  rocks  and  fairly  boiling 
before  him.  A  man  could  not  swim  through  it ; 
could,  indeed,  scarcely  enter  it  and  live — even  a 

36 


THE  RESCUE 

boat  would  find  it  difficult,  if  not  impossible.  Things 
looked  black  to  the  shipwrecked  man.  He  stood 
in  hopeless  hesitation,  doom  reaching  for  him  on 
either  hand.  He  could  neither  go  nor  stay  with  safety. 
Yet  he  apparently  made  up  his  mind  at  last  to  go  and 
die,  if  need  be,  struggling. 

"Don't  try  the  whirlpool,  boy,"  said  the  admiral 
softly  to  himself,  as  he  looked  down  upon  the  scene. 
"  You  could  never  make  it  in  this  sea.  Say  a  prayer, 
lad  ;  'tis  all  that  is  left  you.  By  heaven  !  A  noble 
girl,  my  own  child  !  And  a  brave  oar,  too  !  Steady, 
Barry,  steady  !  Don't  come  too  near !  Your  skiff 
can't  live  in  such  a  sea.  Merciful  God  !  can  they  do 
it?"  continued  the  veteran,  as  the  light  skiff  shot 
out  from  the  lee  of  the  Point  and,  with  Barry  at  the 
oars  and  Emily  at  the  helm,  cautiously  made  its  way 
toward  the  whirlpool. 

The  instant  they  got  out  from  the  lee  of  the  Point 
the  full  force  of  the  storm  struck  them,  although  they 
were  still  within  the  shelter  of  the  harbor.  But  they 
struggled  through  it,  for  a  stronger  pair  of  arms  never 
pulled  oars  and  more  skilful  hands  than  those  on  that 
little  skiff  never  guided  a  boat.  Barry's  strokes 
were  as  steady  and  powerful  as  if  he  had  been  a 
steam  propeller,  and  not  even  the  admiral  himself 
could  have  steered  the  boat  with  greater  dexterity 
than  did  the  girl. 

The  man  on  the  wrecked  cutter  saw  them  when  the 
admiral  did.  Evidently  he  was  a  sailor,  too,  for  he 
knew  exactly  what  they  intended  to  do.  The  two  on 
the  boat  brought  the  skiff  as  near  the  rocks  where  the 

37 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

wreck  of  the  cutter  lay  as  they  dared, — they  were 
almost  in  the  whirlpool,  in  fact, — and  then  Emily,  gath- 
ering the  yoke-lines  in  her  left  hand,  with  the  other 
signalled  him  to  jump.  Nodding  his  head,  he  leaped 
far  out  over  the  whirling  waves  toward  the  boat.  It 
was  his  only  chance. 

"A  gallant  lad,  a  brave  boy  !"  exclaimed  the  admiral, 
as  he  saw  the  man  spring  from  the  wreck.  "  I 
believe  they'll  save  him  yet.  No,  by  heavens  !  he's 
struck  on  one  of  the  reefs  !  Is  he  gone  ?  He 
rises  !  He's  in  the  whirlpool !  He  strikes  out  feebly  ; 
the  waves  go  over  his  head  !  No,  he  rises  again  ! 
They  have  him  !  Well  done,  Emily ;  well  pulled, 
Barry !" 

Taking  a  desperate  chance,  the  girl,  seeing  that  the 
man  was  practically  helpless,  for  he  was  swimming 
feebly  and  apparently  scarcely  able  to  keep  his  head 
up,  boldly  sheered  the  boat  into  the  whirlpool  and  then 
turned  her  about  The  man,  retaining  his  self-posses- 
sion, seized  the  stern  with  his  uninjured  hand.  Emily 
leaned  down  and  caught  him  by  the  coat  collar,  and 
then  Barry  pulled  his  strongest  to  escape  from  the 
twisting  grip  of  the  little  maelstrom. 

Emily  steered  the  boat  with  one  hand  and  with  the 
other  held  on  to  the  stranger.  It  was,  of  course, 
impossible  to  get  him  into  the  boat  Presently  he 
fainted  and  hung  a  dead  'weight  on  her  arm.  The 
admiral  watched  them,  praying  fervently  for  their  suc- 
cess. It  was  a  terrible  pull  for  the  old  sailor  and  a 
terrible  strain  on  the  young  woman.  Again  and 
again  she  thought  she  would  have  to  release  the  man 

38 


THE  RESCUE 

dragging  astern.  Her  arm  was  almost  jerked  from 
her  body,  yet  she  held  on  with  grim  determination, 
steering  the  boat  as  best  she  could  with  her  single 
hand. 

Barry  pulled  until  the  sweat  beaded  his  forehead. 
His  muscles  stood  out  like  whipcords.  For  a  few 
moments  he  feared  that  he  could  not  do  it ;  but  he 
looked  at  the  resolute  figure  in  the  stern-sheets,  the 
girl  he  loved,  and  that  nerved  his  arms.  Presently 
— and  it  seemed  hours  to  both — he  got  the  boat  out 
of  the  whirlpool  and  into  the  comparatively  smooth 
water  under  the  lee  of  the  Point.  After  a  few  weary 
strokes  the  keel  grated  upon  the  shore. 

The  sailor  stepped  out,  made  fast  the  painter,  waded 
back  to  where  the  man  lay  in  the  water,  lifted  him  up 
with  the  assistance  of  Emily,  and  slowly  made  his  way 
up  the  hill,  carrying  him  in  his  arms. 


39 


CHAPTER  VI 


THE  WATER- WITCH 


WE  have  a  deeper  sense  of  proprie- 
torship in  a  thing  we  have  earned 
by  hard  labor  or  gained  by  the 
exercise  of  our  abilities  than  in 
that  which  has  been  given  to  us, 
has  cost  us  nothing. 

As  Emily,  walking  close  by  Barry's  side,  giving  him 
such  assistance  as  was  possible,  looked  with  mingled 
pity  and  anxiety  upon  the  white  face  of  the  man  hang- 
ing limply  back  over  the  arms  of  the  sailor,  she  was 
conscious  that  in  her  soul  had  arisen  a  new  and  curious 
sense  of  ownership  in  humanity, — the  most  satisfac- 
tory, yet  disappointing,  of  our  possessions.  A  strange 
and  indefinable  feeling  surged  in  her  breast  as  she 
thought  hurriedly  of  the  situation.  A  budding  rela- 
tionship— the  deep  relationship  of  services  rendered, 
in  fact — attached  her  inevitably  to  this  stranger — if  he 
were  yet  alive. 

She  flushed  at  the  feeling,  as  if  her  privacy  had 
been  invaded,  as  she  gazed  upon  him.  Her  thoughts 
ran  riot  in  her  bosom,  her  soul  turning  toward  him, 
helpless,  unconscious,  water  dripping  from  his  torn, 
sodden  clothing.  Perhaps  he  was  dead  or  dying. 

40 


THE  WATER-WITCH 

The  thought  gave  her  a  sudden  constriction  of  the 
heart.  That  would  be  untoward  fate  surely.  It 
could  not  be. 

She  had  saved  him.  The  weak  woman  had  been 
strong.  Her  heart  leaped  exultingly  at  that.  He 
was  hers  by  the  divine  right  of  service.  The  strange 
relationship  had  suddenly  become  a  fact  to  her.  Her 
arm  still  ached  with  the  strain  of  holding  him,  yet 
she  was  glad  of  the  pain.  It  was  the  inward  and 
spiritual  evidence  of  her  ownership  in  that  she  had 
found  and  brought  to  shore.  If  he  would  only  live  ! 

As  they  walked  she  prayed. 

She  was  not  in  love  with  him,  of  course, — not  yet, — 
and  yet  she  could  scarcely  analyze — hardly  compre- 
hend— her  feelings.  Her  mind  was  in  a  whirl.  Faint, 
exhausted  physically,  she  did  not  yet  see  clearly. 
But  he  was  there.  She  had  brought  him.  This  human 
bit  of  flotsam  was  hers — but  for  her  he  would  have 
gone  down  forever  in  the  dark  waters.  If  he  lived, 
what  things  might  be?  What  might  come?  She 
admitted  nothing,  even  to  herself. 

It  was  some  distance  from  the  landing-place  to 
the  top  of  the  hill,  and  although  the  man  they  had 
rescued,  albeit  tall,  was  a  slender  young  fellow,  yet 
as  the  sailor  toiled  up  the  well-worn  path  he  felt 
the  weight  of  the  inert  body  growing  greater  with 
every  ascending  step.  Perhaps  it  would  not  have  been 
so  had  he  not  previously  exhausted  himself  in  the 
desperate  pull  to  gain  the  shore  ;  but  when  at  last  he 
reached  the  porch,  he  felt  that  it  would  have  been 
impossible  for  him  to  have  carried  his  burden  another 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

pace.  Indeed,  had  it  not  been  for  the  assistance 
Emily  had  given  him,  he  could  not  have  managed  it 
without  a  stop  or  two  for  rest.  But  he  had  plunged 
blindly  on,  something — an  instinct  of  the  future,  per- 
haps— bidding  him  rid  himself  without  delay  of  the 
growing  oppression  of  his  incubus.  Not  Sindbad  had 
been  more  anxious  to  throw  off  his  old  man  of  the 
sea  than  he  to  cast  down  the  man. 

And  Barry  and  Emily  began  to  play  at  cross- 
purposes  from  that  hour. 

The  man  saved  so  hardly  had  as  yet  given  no  sign 
of  life.  When  the  three  reached  the  porch,  the  sailor 
laid  him  down  at  the  admiral's  feet  and  stood  panting, 
sweat  beading  on  his  bronzed  brow.  The  old  man,  still 
wrapped  in  his  cloak,  stood  on  the  steps,  careless  alike 
of  the  rising  wind  or  the  rain  which  had  begun  to  fall. 

"Well  done!"  he  cried,  extending  his  hand  to 
them,  as  the  sailor  deposited  his  burden.  "  I  never 
saw  a  boat  better  handled,  girl !  'Twas  a  gallant 
rescue,  Barry !" 

"Oh,  grandfather!"  cried  Emily,  too  anxious  to 
heed  approval,  even  from  such  a  source  ;  "  is  he  dead, 
do  you  think?" 

"  I  hope  not ;  but  we'll  soon  see.  Call  the  ser- 
vants, Emily.  Barry,  lift  him  up  again  and  take  him 
into  my  room." 

"No,  mine,"  exclaimed  Emily,  as  she  ran  to  call 
assistance.  "  I  won't  have  you  disturbed,  and  mine  is 
right  off  the  hall  here." 

"  Very  well.  Lay  him  on  the  floor,  Barry.  And, 
Emily,  bring  me  my  flask.  Bear  a  hand,  all." 

42 


Presently  the  man  was  stretched  out  upon  a  blanket  thrown  upon 
the  floor  of  Emily's  room 


THE  WATER- WITCH 

Presently  the  man  was  stretched  out  upon  a  blanket 
thrown  upon  the  floor  of  Emily's  room,  and  the  ad- 
miral knelt  down  by  his  side.  He  felt  over  him  with 
his  practised  fingers,  murmuring  the  while  : 

"  No  bones  broken  apparently.  I  guess  he'll  be 
all  right  Have  you  the  flask  there,  daughter?  This 
will  bring  him  around,  I  trust,"  he  added,  as  he 
poured  the  restoring  liquid  down  the  man's  throat. 
"  Barry,  go  you  for  Dr.  Wilcox  as  quick  as  you 
can.  Present  my  compliments  to  him,  and  ask  him 
to  come  here  at  once.  Shake  a  leg,  man  !  Emily, 
loosen  the  man's  collar — your  fingers  are  younger 
than  mine — and  give  him  another  swallow.  He's 
worth  a  dozen  dead  men  yet,  I'm  sure." 

As  he  spoke  the  admiral  rose  to  his  feet  and  gave 
place  to  Emily.  Very  gently  the  girl  did  as  the  old 
man  bade  her,  and  presently  the  man  extended  before 
her  opened  his  eyes  and  stared  up  at  her  vacantly, 
wonderingly,  for  a  few  moments  at  first,  and  then,  with 
a  dawning  light  of  recognition  in  his  eyes,  he  smiled 
faintly  as  he  remembered.  His  first  words  might  have 
been  considered  flippant,  unworthy  of  the  situation, 
but  to  the  girl  they  seemed  not  inappropriate. 

"The  blue-eyed  water-witch!"  he  murmured. 
"To  be  saved  by  you,"  he  continued,  half  jestingly, — 
it  was  a  brave  heart  which  could  find  place  for  pleas- 
antry then,  she  thought, — "and  then  to  find  you 
smiling  above  me." 

At  these  whispered  words  what  he  still  lacked  in 
color  flickered  into  Emily's  face,  and  as  he  gazed 
steadily  upon  her,  the  flicker  became  a  flame  which 

43 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

suffused  her  cheeks.  He  had  noticed  her  even  in 
those  death-fronting  moments  on  the  wreck. 

"Are  you  better  now?"  she  asked  him  in  her  con- 
fusion. 

"Better,     miss?"    he    answered,    softly,    yet    not 

striving  to  rise  ;  "  I  am  well  again.  I  came  down 
4.^  » 

"  Silence,  lad,  silence  fore  and  aft !  Belay  all  until 
the  surgeon  comes,  and  you  shall  tell  us  all  about  it 
then,"  interrupted  the  admiral.  "  He'll  be  here  in  a 
moment  now,  I  think,  if  Barry  have  good  luck.  Will 
you  have  another  swallow  of  whiskey?" 

"No,  sir,  thank  you  ;  I've  had  enough." 

At  that  moment  the  sailor  entered  the  hall,  fairly 
dragging  the  fat  little  doctor  in  his  wake. 

"  I  fell  foul  of  him  just  outside  of  the  yard,  your 
honor,"  said  Barry,  as  he  appeared  in  the  door-way. 

"  '  Fell  foul  of  me  !'  I  should  think  you  did  !  You 
fell  on  me  like  a  storm,"  cried  the  doctor,  dropping 
his  wet  cloak  in  the  passage-way  and  bustling  into 
the  room.  "  What  is  it,  admiral  ?  Are  you ?" 

"I'm  all  right,  doctor." 

"It's  not  Miss  Emily?" 

"No,  sir;  I'm  all  right,  too  ;  but " 

"  Oho  !"  said  the  doctor,  his  glance  at  last  falling 
to  the  man  extended  on  the  floor ;  "  this  is  the 
patient,  is  it?  Well,  young  man,  you  look  rather 
damp,  I  am  sure.  What's  up  ?" 

"Nothing  seems  to  be  up,  sir,"  answered  the  man, 
smilingly,  amusedly.  "I  seem  to  be  down,  though." 

"  I  guess  you're  in  pretty  good  shape,  sir,"  said 
44 


THE  WATER- WITCH 

the  doctor,  laughingly,  "  if  you  can  joke  about  it ;  and 
if  you  are  down  now,  we'll  soon  have  you  up." 

As  he  spoke,  the  physician  knelt  and  examined 
his  patient  carefully. 

"How  did  it  happen,  Miss  Emily?"  he  asked,  as 
he  proceeded  with  his  investigations. 

"  Why,  doctor,  we  picked  him  up  out  of  the 
water." 

"We?" 

"Yes,  sir.     Captain  Barry  and  I." 

"  My  sloop  was  wrecked  on  the  rocks  beyond  the 
old  ship,"  said  the  young  man;  "and  when  this 
young  lady  came  along  in  a  boat  I  jumped,  and  as 
I  am  not  quite  recovered  from  a  wound  I  got  at 
Mobile  Bay,  I  suppose  I  lost  consciousness  from  the 
shock.  I'm  all  right  now,  though." 

"  I  think  so,  too,"  said  the  doctor  ;  "  we'll  get  these 
wet  clothes  off  you  in  a  jiffy,  and  then  I'll  give  you 
something,  and  in  the  morning  you'll  hardly  know 
you've  been  in  danger." 

"  I  shall  never  forget  that  I  was  in  danger  this 
time,  sir,"  said  the  young  man,  addressing  the  doctor, 
but  looking  fixedly  at  the  young  girl. 

"  No,  of  course  not ;  but  why  particularly  at  this 
time  ?" 

"  Because  I  was  saved  by " 

"Oh,  that's  it,  is  it?  Faith,  I'd  be  willing  to  be 
half  drowned  myself  to  be  saved  in  that  way.  Mean- 
while, do  you  withdraw,  Miss  Emily,  and  we'll  get 
him  ready  for  bed.  Where  is  he  to  lie?" 

"Here, "said  the  girl. 

45 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

"In  your  room  ?" 

"Certainly." 

"I  protest,  sir,"  said  the  man,  sitting  up  with  as- 
tonishing access  of  vigor. 

"  Nobody  protests  when  Miss  Emily  commands 
anything.  Here  you'll  stay,  sir  !"  said  Barry,  gruffly, 
as  the  girl  left  the  room. 

The  doctor  and  the  sailor  soon  tucked  him  away  in 
bed,  the  admiral  looking  on.  As  they  undressed  him 
they  noticed  a  long  scar  across  his  breast  where  a  shell 
from  Fort  Morgan  had  keeled  him  over.  The  doctor 
examined  it  critically. 

"  That  was  a  bad  one,"  he  said,  touching  the 
wound  deftly  with  his  pudgy  yet  knowing  finger. 
"That'll  be  the  one  you  spoke  of,  I  take  it?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  the  young  man  ;  "it's  been  a 
long  time  in  healing.  I  feel  the  effect  of  it  yet  some- 
times." 

"  But  you'll  get  over  it  in  time,  young  man,  I'm 
thinking,"  said  the  kindly  little  country  doctor. 

"I  hope  so,  sir." 

The  patient  was  thin  and  pale  from  the  effects  of 
the  wound,  which,  as  he  said,  had  been  a  long  time 
healing.  It  was  evident  that  he  had  not  yet  recov- 
ered his  strength  or  his  weight,  either,  or  the  burden 
on  Captain  Barry  would  have  been  heavier  than  it 
was. 

"  Did  you  say,"  said  the  admiral,  as  they  prepared 
to  leave  him,  "that  you  had  been  at  Mobile  Bay?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"What  ship  were  you  on?" 
46 


THE  WATER- WITCH 

"The  Hartford,  sir." 

"  Bless  me  !"  exclaimed  the  old  man  ;  "  with  Dave 
Farragut?" 

"Yes,  sir  ;  I  had  that  honor." 

"Why,  I  knew  that  boy  when  he  was  a  midship- 
man. I " 

"  Now,  admiral,  excuse  me  for  giving  commands  in 
your  presence,  but  you  know  there  are  times  when  the 
doctor  rules  the  ship.  This  young  man  must  be  left 
alone,  and,  after  the  excitement,  I  think  you  had 
better  go  to  bed — excuse  me,  I  mean  turn  in — your- 
self," interposed  the  physician,  peremptorily. 

"  Hark  to  the  storm  !"  said  the  old  man,  turning  to 
the  window,  his  thoughts  diverted  for  the  moment 
from  the  accident  and  his  guest — it  needed  but 
little  to  turn  his  mind  to  the  ship  at  any  time  or  under 
any  circumstances.  "  Mark  the  flash  of  the  lightning, 
hear  the  thunder,  doctor  !  She'll  be  sore  racked  to- 
night !" 

He  peered  anxiously  out  into  the  darkness  over  the 
Point. 

"Come,  come,  admiral." 

"Nay,  sir.  I  must  wait  for  another  flash  to  see 
whether  the  old  ship  still  stands.  Ay,  there  she  is  ! 
Well,  'twill  not  be  long ;  and  were  it  not  for  Emily, 
I'd  say,  thank  God  !  Good-night,  lad.  A  boy  with 
Farragut,.  and  he  a  boy  with  me  !  Well,  well !  Good- 
night ;  sleep  well,  sir." 

Long  time  the  veteran  lay  awake  listening  to  the 
wind  and  waiting  for  the  crash  of  the  ship.  And  in 
the  room  above,  where  the  servants  had  made  a  bed 

47 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

for  Emily,  another  kept  sleepless  watch,  though  she 
thought  but  little  of  the  storm  ;  or,  if  she  did,  it  was 
with  thankfulness  for  what  it  had  brought  her. 

How  handsome  he  had  looked,  even  with  that 
death-like  pallor  upon  his  brown  sunburnt  cheek,  as 
she  had  knelt  beside  him !  Had  the  waves  of  the 
tempest  indeed  brought  the  long-expected,  long- 
dreamed-of  lover  to  her  feet  ?  And  he  was  a  sailor  ; 
he  had  been  with  Farragut ;  he  had  been  wounded  in 
the  service  of  his  country — a  hero  !  And  what  had 
he  said  ?  "  Saved  by  a  blue-eyed  water-witch  !"  How 
delightful  to  think  on  !  And  he  would  never  forget 
the  rescue  because  she  had  done  it !  He  jested,  surely  ; 
yet  could  the  words  be  true  ? 

How  different  he  was  from  the  young  men  of  the 
village  !  Even  the  few  officers  of  the  different  detach- 
ments of  volunteers  which  had  successively  garrisoned 
the  fort  were  not  as  he.  How  different  from  Captain 
Barry,  too — alas,  poor  old  sailor  !  Her  grandfather, 
now,  might  have  been  like  him  when  he  was  younger. 

What  a  storm  it  was  !  How  the  wind  howled 
around  the  corners  of  the  house  !  What  had  he  come 
there  for?  Strangers  rarely  visited  the  quiet  little 
town.  What  business  or  pleasure  had  brought  him  to 
the  village  ?  Was  the  ship  braving  the  storm  ?  If 
the  ship  went  down,  her  grandfather  would  go,  too, 
and  perhaps  Captain  Barry.  Who  would  care  for  her 
then  ?  What  was  that  young  man's  name  ?  Pity  he 
had  not  mentioned  it.  "A  blue-eyed  water-witch  !" 

She  drifted  off  to  sleep. 

Down  upon  the  deck  of  the  old  ship,  heedless  of 


THE  WATER- WITCH 

the  storm,  Captain  Barry  paced  restlessly  up  and 
down.  What  had  he  done  it  for  ?  What  fool's  im- 
pulse had  made  him  obey  her  sharp  command  ? 
'Twas  his  arm  that  had  held  the  boat  under  iron 
control ;  'twas  his  powerful  stroke  that  had  brought  it 
near  enough  to  enable  the  man  to  make  the  leap  with 
the  chance  of  safety ;  and  he  had  carried  him  up  the 
hill.  The  increasing  weight  of  the  incumbrance  but 
typified  the  growing  heaviness  of  his  heart.  The 
man  was  one  of  the  admiral's  class, — a  gentleman,  an 
officer,  a  man  who  had  been  wounded  in  the  service 
of  his  country,  a  hero.  How  he  had  stared  at  Emily 
when  his  senses  came  back  to  him  !  He,  Barry,  was 
only  a  common  sailor,  a  blue-jacket,  the  admiral's 
servitor,  Miss  Emily's  dog,  old  enough  to  be  her 
father, — a  fool ! 

He  stood  up  in  the  darkness  and  stretched  out  his 
arms  to  heaven, — what  voiceless,  wordless  prayer  in 
his  lonely  old  heart  ?  The  storm  beat  full  upon  him. 
His  mind  was  filled  with  foreboding,  regret,  jealousy, 
anguish.  Why  had  the  man  come  there  ?  Was  it  for 
Emily  ?  What  should  any  man  come  there  for  if  not 
for  her  ? 

But,  stay ;  he  was  a  sailor.  Perhaps  he  had  come 
for  the  ship  !  The  war  was  over,  retrenchment  the 
cry.  Poor  Barry  had  heard  strange  rumors.  There 
was  no  sleep  for  him  that  night 


49 


CHAPTER   VII 


THE  HOME  OF  THE  SEA-MAIDEN 

MR.  RICHARD  REVERE  was  a  young 
lieutenant  in  the  navy  of  the  United 
States.     He  came  of  an  ancient  and 
honorable  family,  possessed  of  wealth 
and  station.     He  had  graduated  from 
the  Naval  Academy  in  1 863,  and,  by  an  act  of  daring 
gallantry  in  cutting  out  a  blockade-runner,  had  easily 
won  a  lieutenant's  commission.    When  Farragut  sailed 
into   Mobile   Bay  on    that  hot  August  morning   in 
1 864,  the  young  man  stood  on  the  deck  by  his  side. 
A  Blakely  shell   from    Fort    Morgan   had   seriously 
wounded  him,  and  this  wound,  coupled  with  a  long 
siege  of  fever  subsequently,  had  almost  done  for  him. 
Although  over  a  year  had  elapsed  since  that  event- 
ful day,  he  had  by  no  means  regained  his  strength, 
although  he  seemed  now  on  the  fair  road  to  recovery. 
Anxious  to  be  on  duty  again  after  this  long  period  of 
enforced  idleness,  he  had  recently  applied  for  orders, 
and  had  been  detailed  to  proceed  to  Lake  Ontario 
and  make  arrangements  for  the  sale,  or  other  disposal, 
of  the  Susquehanna.     His  mother  owned  a  cottage 
on  one  of  the  Thousand  Isles,  and  the  distance  was, 
therefore,     inconsiderable.     When    the    orders    had 

So 


THE  HOME  OF  THE  SEA-MAIDEN 

reached  him  there,  he  determined  to  sail  down  to 
Sewell's  Harbor  in  a  little  yacht  which  he  had  char- 
tered for  lake  cruising,  instead  of  taking  the  longer 
and  more  tedious  journey  by  land. 

He  had  reached  his  destination  in  the  way  which 
has  been  told.  It  was  imprudent  in  him  to  have 
attempted  to  make  the  mouth  of  an  unknown  harbor 
in  such  a  storm,  and  he  had  nearly  paid  the  penalty 
for  his  folly  with  his  life.  Exhausted  by  his  adven- 
ture, he  fell  speedily  into  a  sound  and  refreshing  slum- 
ber, his  last  thought  being  of  the  radiant  face  bowed 
over  him  when  he  had  opened  his  eyes  in  the  very 
room  in  which  he  now  sought  rest. 

He  awoke  in  the  morning  feeling  very  much  better. 
On  a  chair  opposite  the  bed  lay  a  suit  of  clothes.  He 
glanced  at  the  garments  curiously  and  observed  that 
they  were  the  different  articles  of  a  blue-jacket's  uni- 
form. They  evidently  belonged  to  that  sailor-man 
who  had  assisted  in  his  rescue.  They  were  new  and 
spotlessly  neat ;  certainly  his  best  suit.  His  own  uni- 
form was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  It  must  have  been 
badly  torn  and,  of  course,  thoroughly  soaked  by  his 
adventure.  His  clothes,  probably,  were  not  yet  fit  to 
put  on.  If  he  were  to  get  up  at  all  he  must  make  use 
of  these.  Well,  it  would  not  be  the  first  time  that  he 
had  worn  a  seaman's  clothes.  They  reminded  him  of 
his  cadet  days,  and  so  he  arose,  somewhat  painfully  be 
it  known,  and  dressed  himself,  curiously  surveying  the 
room  as  he  did  so. 

It  was  a  strange  room,  he  thought,  for  a  young 
girl,  as  he  remembered  that  it  belonged  to  her.  Her  ? 

51 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

How  indefinite  that  was  !  He  wished  he  knew  her 
name.  He  wondered  whether  it  were  beautiful  enough 
to  be  appropriate.  He  hoped  so.  The  chamber  was 
not  at  all  like  that  of  a  young  woman.  For  instance, 
there  was  a  deadly  looking  harpoon  standing  in  the 
corner.  He  picked  up  the  sinister  weapon  and  ex- 
amined it. 

"  Queer  toy,  that  thing,  for  a  girl,"  he  murmured ; 
"  quite  a  proper  weapon  for  a  whaler,  though." 

Its  barbs  were  as  sharp  and  keen  as  a  razor.  On 
the  wooden  staff  the  letters  "J.  B."  were  roughly 
carved.  Were  those  her  initials  ?  Pshaw,  of  course 
not !  But  whose  ?  He  experienced  quite  a  thrill 
of — it  could  not  be  jealousy  !  That  was  absurd. 

"What's  this?  A  model  of  a  ship.  By  Jove !  I 
believe  it's  the  old  Susquehanna  herself, — the  ship  I 
am  come  to  sell !  And  here's  a  shark's  tooth  rudely 
carved.  Oars  in  the  other  corner,  too.  And  a  fish- 
net and  lines  !  This  bunch  of  wild  flowers,  though, 
and  the  contents  of  this  bureau  mark  the  woman  ; 
but  I'm  blessed  if  there  isn't  a  boatswain's  call,  lan- 
iard and  all !  That's  about  the  prettiest  laniard  I 
ever  saw,"  he  continued,  critically  examining  the 
knots  and  strands  and  Turk's  heads.  "  Have  I 
stumbled  into  Master  Jack's  quarters  by  mistake,  or 
— oh,  I  see  how  it  is.  I  suppose  that  old  sailor  has 
loaded  her  with  these  treasures.  He  probably  adores 
her — who  could  help  it?  And  the  admiral,  too. 
Now,  what's  this,  I  wonder?  What  a  queer-looking 
sword  !" 

He  lifted  up  the  weapon,  which  lay  on  a  wooden 
52 


THE  HOME  OF  THE  SEA-MAIDEN 

shelf  between  the  windows,  crossed  pistols  of  ancient 
make  hanging  above  it  beneath  a  fine  old  painting 
of  a  handsome  young  naval  officer,  in  the  uniform  of 
a  captain  of  the  1812  period.  The  leather  scabbard 
was  richly  and  artistically  mounted  in  silver,  but 
the  hilt  was  a  rough  piece  of  unpolished,  hammered 
iron.  He  drew  the  weapon  from  the  sheath.  The 
blade  was  of  the  most  exquisite  quality,  beautifully 
chased,  a  rare  bit  of  Toledo  steel,  handsome  enough 
to  throw  a  connoisseur  into  ecstasy.  He  tested  it, 
cautiously  at  first,  and  then  boldly  ;  it  was  a  magnifi- 
cent weapon,  tempered  to  perfection.  Such  a  blade 
as  a  king  or  conqueror  might  have  wielded, — and 
yet,  that  coarse  iron  hilt !  What  could  it  mean  ? 
He  thrust  it  back  reverently  into  its  scabbard  and 
laid  it  down,  and  then  completed  his  toilet 

When  he  was  dressed,  he  took  a  long  look  at  him- 
self in  the  little,  old-fashioned  mirror  swinging  be- 
tween two  lyre-shaped  standards  on  the  dresser,  and 
smiled  at  the  picture.  In  height  he  was,  perhaps, 
as  tall  as  the  sailor,  but  in  bulk  there  was  no  com- 
parison. He  laughed  at  the  way  the  clothes  hung 
about  him.  Yet  the  dashing,  jaunty  uniform  was 
not  ill  adapted  to  set  off  his  handsome  face.  It  was 
complete,  even  to  sheath-knife  and  belt.  On  the 
chair  lay  the  flat  cap,  bearing  on  its  ribbon,  in  letters 
of  gold,  the  name  Susquehanna.  He  put  the  cap 
on  and  went  out  on  the  porch. 

Captain  Barry  was  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  steps 
leading  from  the  porch,  looking  at  the  ship.  It  was 
early  morning. 

53 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

"  My  man,"  said  the  young  officer,  meaning  to  be 
entirely  friendly  and  cordial,  as  he  was  profoundly 
grateful,  yet  unable  entirely  to  keep  the  difference  of 
rank  and  station  out  of  his  voice  and  manner, — a 
condescension  which  irritated  the  sailor  beyond  ex- 
pression. They  were  both  dressed  exactly  alike, 
and  certainly  physically  the  older  was  the  better 
man.  He  had  lived  long  enough  in  the  society  of 
the  girl  and  the  old  man  to  have  developed  some 
of  the  finer  feelings  of  his  nature,  too.  He  shook 
himself  angrily,  therefore,  as  the  other  spoke. 

"  My  man,  you  lay  me  under  double  obligation. 
You  and  your  golden-haired  mistress  presented  me 
with  my  life  last  night,  and  now  you  '  paint  the  lily' — 
gad,  that's  a  good  simile,  isn't  it?"  he  chuckled  to 
himself — "  by  giving  me  your  clothes.  How  am  I  to 
acquit  myself  of  all  I  owe  you?" 

"Sir,"  said  the  old  man,  grimly,  knuckling  his 
forehead,  with  a  sea-scrape  of  his  foot,  more  as  a  mat- 
ter of  habit  than  as  a  token  of  respect,  "  you  owe  me 
nothing." 

He  turned  abruptly,  and  went  around  the  house 
without  looking  back. 

"Queer  duck,  that,"  soliloquized  the  young  man, 
staring  after  him  in  amazement ;"  seems  to  be  mad 
about  something.  Mad  at  me,  perhaps.  I  wonder 
why?  Well,  those  old  shell-backs  are  apt  to  take 
quaint  notions.  Never  mind  ;  let  him  do  what  he 
likes.  Where  would  you  be,  Mr.  Dick  Revere,  if  it 
had  not  been  for  him  and  the  girl?  How  funny  I 
must  look,  though  !  I  wonder  whether  the  apparel 

54 


THE  HOME  OF  THE  SEA-MAIDEN 

becomes  the  man  ?  I  flatter  myself  I  have  given  the 
proper  hitch  to  the  tie.  It  is  '  a  touch  of  wild  civility 
that  doth  bewitch  me,'"  he  quoted.  "I  wish  I  had 
brought  that  bo's'n's  whistle  out.  I'd  like  to  sound 
a  call  or  two." 

He  drifted  off  into  a  brown  study,  thinking  hard 
in  this  manner. 

"  I  wonder  what  Josephine  would  say  if  she  could 
see  me  now?  Is  all  our  difference  of  rank  but  a 
matter  of  uniform  ?  By  Jove  !  I  forgot  all  about  her. 
I  don't  believe  I've  thought  of  her  since  I  left  them  ; 
yet,  if  the  novels  are  right,  I  should  have  been  think- 
ing of  her  when  I  stood  on  the  deck  of  the  yacht 
expecting  every  moment  would  be  my  last  I  was 
thinking  of  that  girl  in  the  boat,  though.  Wasn't 
she  splendid  ?  Plucky,  pretty — well !  Gracious  me, 
Richard  Revere,  at  the  age  of  twenty-four  you  are 
surely  not  going  to  fall  in  love  with  the  first  woman 
you  see,  especially  since  you  have  been  engaged  to 
Josephine  Remington  pretty  much  ever  since  you 
were  born, — or  ever  since  she  was  born,  which  was 
four  years  later.  But  I  swear  I'd  give  a  year  of 
Josephine's  cold,  classic,  beautiful  regularity  for  a 
minute  of — pshaw,  don't  be  a  fool  !  I'll  go  and  look  at 
the  yacht.  I  wonder  whether  anything's  left  of  her  ? 
Nobody  would  think  there  had  been  a  storm  of  any  kind 
to  look  at  the  lake  to-day.  What  a  lovely  morning  !" 

Indeed,  the  wind  had  gone  down  to  a  gentle  breeze, 
and  the  surface  of  the  lake  was  tossing  in  thousands 
of  merry  little  waves,  their  white  crests  sparkling  in 
the  sunlight. 

55 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

"The  old  ship  is  still  standing,"  he  continued, 
soliloquizing  again,  as  he  walked  toward  the  bluff. 
"  I  suppose  it  will  come  awfully  hard  on  the  old  man 
when  he  finds  out  that  the  government  is  going  to  sell 
her.  What  did  they  tell  me  his  name  was  ?  Somebody 
or  other  distinguished  ;  I  forget  who.  Must  have  been 
a  fine  old  chap  in  his  day.  What  was  it  he  said  when 
he  looked  out  of  the  window  before  he  bade  me  good- 
night ?  This  is  going  to  be  rather  a  tough  sort  of  a 
job,  I'm  afraid,  and  I  don't  half  like  it." 

He  had  reached  the  hill  by  this  time,  and,  feeling 
a  little  tired,  he  sat  down  on  the  steps  overlooking 
the  sea.  There,  below  him  on  the  Point,  stood  the 
ship-of-the-line.  An  imposing  picture,  indeed.  He 
had  been  too  busy  the  night  before  to  notice  it.  He 
stared  at  it  with  growing  interest,  and  a  feeling  of 
pity,  for  whom,  for  what,  he  could  scarcely  say, 
slowly  rose  in  his  heart 

"  Poor  old  ship  !"  he  murmured. 

A  ragged  mass  of  fallen  timber  on  the  lee  side  pro- 
claimed that  some  portion  of  her  had  been  carried  away 
during  the  storm  of  the  night, — and  she  had  little  left 
to  spare.  There,  too,  on  the  reef  beyond,  were  the 
remains  of  the  Josephine,  battered  into  a  shapeless  ruin. 

"Well,  that  was  a  close  shave  ;  the  Josephine  will 
never  carry  sail  again.  What  melancholy  pictures  !" 
he  said,  thoughtfully  ;  "  poor  little  boat,  too  !  I've 

had  many  a  good  time  on  her,  and  now  I But 

I'd  cheerfully  give   a  dozen  yachts,"  he   continued, 
with  the  reckless  hyperbole  of  youth,  "to  be  rescued 

by " 

56 


CHAPTER   VIII 


"OLD  IRONSIDES" 


^^HE    continuity    of    his    thought    was 
suddenly  broken.     A  beautiful  hand, 


r\ 

of    exquisite    touch,    sunburned,    but 
shapely,  delicate,  but  strong,  was  laid 
lightly  on  his  shoulder.     He  glanced 
down  at  it,  thrilled  ! 

"Captain  Barry,"  exclaimed  a  fresh,  clear  young 
voice,  which  in  perfection  matched  the  hand,  "have 
you  looked  to  the  comfort  of  our  guest?  Oh,  sir, 

I  beg  your  pardon.     I  thought "  she  cried  in 

dismay,  as  Revere  rose  to  his  feet  and  bowed  low 
before  her. 

"  May  I  answer  your  question  ?  He  has,  as  these 
clothes,  which  account  for  your  mistake,  will  witness." 

"  And  are  you  well,  sir  ?  Are  you  none  the  worse 
for ?" 

"  Much  the  better,  I  should  say,"  answered  the 
young  man,  "since  my  adventure  has  gained  me  the 
privilege  of  your  acquaintance." 

"  You  might  have  had  that  without  risking  your  life, 
sir,"  she  responded,  smiling. 

"  Not  without  risking  my  heart,  I  am  sure,"  he  re- 
plied, gallantly. 

57 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

"What  a  strange  way  you  have  of  addressing 
people  !"  she  continued,  looking  at  him  so  frankly  and 
so  innocently  that  he  felt  ashamed  of  himself.  "  Do 
you  always  talk  in  that  way  ?" 

"Well,  not  always,"  he  replied,  laughing ;  "  but  I 
jest " 

"Oh,  it  was  only  a  jest,  then,"  she  interrupted,  her 
heart  sinking  faintly. 

"But  I  jest  when  I  should  be  thanking  you  for 
giving  me  my  life,"  he  continued,  disregarding  her 

interruption.  "You  saved  my  life,  Miss I  do 

not  know  your  name." 

"I  am  Emily  Sanford,  the  admiral's  grand- 
daughter." 

"You  saved  my  life,  Miss  Sanford." 

"  I  don't  believe  I've  ever  been  called  '  Miss  San- 
ford' in  my  life.  How  strange  it  sounds  !"  she  ex- 
claimed, naively.  "  Everybody  here  calls  me  '  Miss 
Emily.'  " 

"You  will  not  find  me  unwilling,  I  am  sure,  to 
adopt  the  common  practice,"  he  exclaimed,  lightly. 
"But,  seriously,  death  never  seemed  nearer  to  me 
than  it  did  last  night,  and  I  have  been  near  it  before, 
too.  Had  it  not  been  for  you ' ' 

"And  Captain  Barry,"  she  interrupted,  quickly. 

"Of  course,  for  him,  too,  I'd  not  be  here  thanking 
you  now." 

"  But  it  was  nothing,  after  all ;  anybody  could  have 
done  it." 

"  There  I  disagree  with  you.  I  am  sailor  enough 
to  know  that  it  was  a  most  desperate  undertaking. 

58 


"  OLD  IRONSIDES" 

You  put  your  own  life  in  hazard  to  save  mine.  If 
that  old  man  had  relaxed  his  efforts,  if  you  had  made 
a  mistake  with  those  yoke-lines, — well,  there  would 
have  been  three  of  us  to  go  instead  of  one." 

"Oh,  hardly  that." 

"But  I  know,  Miss  Emily,  and  I  cannot  allow 
you  to  disparage  your  action  so.  'Twas  a  most 
heroic  thing,  and  I'm  not  worthy  the  risk  and  the 
effort." 

"  But  you  have  been  with  Farragut  ;  you  were  at 
Mobile  Bay  in  the  Hartford ;  you " 

"You  did  not  know  it  then,  surely?"  in  great 
surprise. 

"  I  did  not  then  ;  but  since  I  did — as  you  persist  in 
saying — save  you,  I  am  glad  to  know  it  now.  But 
you  have  not  told  me  your  name." 

"  My  name  is  Richard  Revere.  I  am  a  lieutenant 
in  the  United  States  navy." 

"  How  did  you  happen  to  come  here  ?"  curiously. 

"  I  came  about  the  ship." 

"  The  ship  ?"  she  cried  in  alarm.      "  What  of  it?" 

"  I  came  to  (inspect  it,"  he  answered,  evasively, 
something  prompting  him  that  he  was  getting  in  dan- 
gerous waters. 

"  Oh  !"  she  exclaimed,  greatly  relieved  ;  "  I  thought 
you  might  have  come  to  destroy  it,  or  to  dispose  of  it. 
You  see,  it  would  be  the  death  of  grandfather  if  any- 
thing should  happen  to  the  old  ship,  and  it  would  kill 
the  old  sailor,  too  ;  and  then  what  would  become  of 
me?" 

Her  frankness  delighted  him.  An  answer  trembled 
59 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

on  the  tip  of  his  tongue,  but  by  a  great  effort  he  re- 
strained his  inclination  and  questioned  her. 

"  Have  you  no  relatives,  no  friends?" 

"  No  relatives  at  all  except  grandfather,"  she  an- 
swered, freely  and  frankly.  "  I  have  lived  here  since 
I  was  a  baby  with  the  admiral  and  Captain  Barry. 
My  mother  died  when  I  was  an  infant,  and  she  was  the 
only  child  of  her  mother.  I  haven't  a  connection  in 
the  world  that  I  know  of.  Friends  ?  Yes,  everybody 
in  the  village  is  a  friend  of  mine  ;  but  they  are  different, 
you  know.  I  wonder  sometimes  what  will  happen 
when — they  can't  last  much  longer,  you  know,  but 
God  will  take  care  of  me,"  she  continued,  simply. 

"And  I,  too,"  he  murmured  softly,  in  spite  of  him- 
self. 

"  You  !"  she  cried,  surprised,  turning  her  clear, 
splendid  eyes  toward  him  and  confronting  him  in  one 
unabashed  glance.  "What  do  you  mean?  I " 

"Nevermind,  Miss  Emily,"  he  answered,  recovering 
himself  again  ;  "  you  are  right  God  will  find  some 
way,  I  doubt  not  I  only  mean  to  say  that  if  you  ever 
need  a  friend,  a  real  friend,  you  may  count  upon  me 
and  upon  my  mother.  She  owes  you  a  son,  you 
know,  and  I  am  sure  she  would  gladly  pay  her  debt 
in  kindness  to  you." 

Dangerous  promises,  Richard,  so  far  as  you  are  con- 
cerned, in  spite  of  Plato  ;  and  few  men  there  be  who 
dare  assume  to  speak  for  a  woman,  a  mother,  to  a 
possible  daughter-in-law ! 

His  words  were  simple  enough,  but  there  was  such 
intensity  in  the  glance  that  accompanied  them  that 

60 


"OLD  IRONSIDES" 

the  girl,  innocent  though  she  was,  shrank  from  it, — 
not  with  fear,  but  from  the  old,  old  instinct  of  woman 
that  suggests  flight  when  fain  to  be  pursued. 

"  More  of  the  ship  went  with  the  gale  last  night," 
she  murmured,  pointing;  "see  yonder.  I  think  every 
gale  that  comes  will  be  the  last  of  her.  Your  boat  is 
gone  to  pieces,  too." 

"I  count  it  well  lost,"  he  replied,  softly,  "for  it  has 
brought  me  to  you." 

"  You  must  not  say  that,"  she  answered,  gravely  ; 
"  and  I  am  forgetting  my  duty.  Breakfast  is  nearly 
ready.  I  came  to  tell  you.  Will  you  come  into  the 
house  ?" 

It  was  not  the  first  time  that  a  maiden  forgot  her 
duty — even  in  trifles  like  this — in  the  presence  of  a 
man  she  was  beginning  to  love,  nor  would  it  be  the 
last. 

"  Did  you,  then,  do  me  the  honor  to  seek  me  ?  I 
am  delighted." 

"At  the  prospect  of  breakfast?"  she  asked,  smiling 
at  him  merrily. 

"Of  course.  Did  you  ever  see  a  sailor-man  who 
wasn't?" 

"  The  only  sailor-men  I  know  are  my  grandfather 
and  Captain  Barry.  Grandfather  cares  nothing  about 
it,  but  I  must  say  that  Captain  Barry " 

"  Does  full  justice  to  his  rations,  I  doubt  not.  He 
looks  like  it.  Well,  I  am  only  a  lieutenant.  I  will 
follow  the  captain.  May  I  help  you  up  the  hill  ?" 

She  laughed  lightly  at  him. 

"  Why,  Mr.  Revere,  I  run  up  and  down  that  hill  a 
61 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

dozen  times  a  day,  and  I  should  think,  after  your 
battering  of  last  night,  you  would  rather  depend  upon 
me.  Come,  let  us  go." 

They  had  gone  but  a  few  steps  when  an  idea 
struck  the  lieutenant  He  stopped,  pressed  his  hand 
against  his  side,  and  gazed  beseechingly  at  his  com- 
panion. 

"Oh,  what  is  it?"  she  cried  ;  "your  wound?  You 
ought  not  to  have  come  out  What  shall  we  do  ?" 

"I  am  afraid,"  answered  this  mendacious  deceiver  ; 
"  I  am  sorry  to  trouble  you,  but  I  will  have  to  be 
helped  up  the  hill,  after  all.  You  see " 

"  Of  course,  of  course.  How  thoughtless  of  me  ! 
I'll  call  Captain  Barry  at  once." 

"  Oh,  no ;  that  will  be  unnecessary.  If  you  will 
give  me  your  hand  I  think  I  can  manage." 

She  extended  her  hand  to  him  instantly  with  all  the 
freedom  of  her  character,  and  her  ready  offer  shamed 
him  again.  His  repentance  of  his  subterfuge  did  not 
rise  to  the  renunciation  point,  for  it  must  be  confessed 
that  he  seized  the  beautiful,  sunburnt  little  hand  with 
avidity,  and  clung  to  it  as  if  he  really  craved  assist- 
ance. She  helped  him  religiously  up  the  hill,  and, 
as  he  showed  no  desire  to  relinquish  her  hand  when 
they  reached  the  top,  she  asked  him  if  he  did  not  feel 
able  to  walk  alone  now ;  and  when  he  was  forced  to 
reply  in  the  affirmative,  she  drew  it  gently  away. 

"  You  see,"  he  said,  "  it  was  so  delightful,  I  quite 
forgot." 

"What  was  delightful  ?" 

"To  have  reached  the  top  of  the  hill ;  you  know  it 
62 


"OLD  IRONSIDES" 

was    so  pleasant,  I — I — forgot — I  was  holding  your 
hand." 

If  Emily  had  been  a  modern  young  woman  she 
might  have  asked  him  how  he  could  ever  have  for- 
gotten for  a  moment  that  he  was  holding  her  hand  ; 
but  as  his  glance  carried  his  meaning  home  to  her  she 
flushed  deeply.  The  admiral's  voice  calling  to  them 
from  the  door-way  put  an  end  to  a  scene  which  was 
delightful  to  both  of  them. 

On  seeing  the  old  man,  the  young  man  took  off  his 
cap  and  bowed  respectfully. 

"Sir,"  he  said,  "my  name  is  Richard  Revere." 
"Are  you  related  to  Commodore  Dick  Revere  of 
the  old  navy?" 

"  He  was  my  grandfather,  sir." 
"  I  knew  him  well  ;  I  sailed  on  many  a  cruise  with 
him.     A  gallant  fellow,  a  loyal  friend.      I'm  glad  to 
meet  you,  sir.     You  are  welcome." 

"  I  have  to  thank  you  for  your  hospitality,  sir,  even 
as  I  thank  your  granddaughter  for  her  heroic  rescue 
of  me  last  night." 

"  It  was,  indeed,  nobly  done,  young  sir,  and  I  am 
glad  that  my  child   should  have   been  of  service  to  a 
grandson  of  Dick  Revere,   or  to  a  friend   of  Dave 
Farragut.     You  were  at  Mobile,  were  you  ?" 
"Yes,  sir,  and  on  the  Hartford" 
"  I've  seen  many  a  battle   in  my  day,  young  sir," 
said  the  old  admiral,  simply.     "It  was  old-fashioned 
fighting  then,  yard-arm  to  yard-arm,  but  we  went  at 
it  good  and  hard,  and  our  hearts  were  in  it,  I  doubt 
not,  just  as  yours  were." 

'        63 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

"May  I  know  your  name,  sir?" 

"  I  am  called  Charles  Stewart, "  responded  the  other. 

"What?"  cried  the  lieutenant  "Charles  Stewart 
of  the  Constitution  ?  The  man  who  took  the  Cyane 
and  the  Levant  ?" 

"  The  same,  sir." 

"  Him  they  call  '  Old  Ironsides'  ?" 

"  I  believe  my  countrymen  do  apply  that  name  to 
me  sometimes,"  replied  the  old  man,  smiling  with 
pleasure  at  the  hearty  admiration  of  the  younger. 

"  I  am  proud  to  know  you,  sir,  and  proud  to  see 
you.  We  of  the  new  navy  only  hope  that  we  may 
live  up  to  the  record  you  of  the  old  made  in  the 
past,  sir." 

"  You  have  more  than  done  that,"  said  the  old  man, 
heartily  ;  "  we  had  no  better  men  than  Farragut  and 
young  Porter.  I  sailed  with  old  Porter,  his  father, 
many  a  time.  I  knew  him  well." 

"But  come,  grandfather,"  said  Emily,  "breakfast is 
ready." 

"A  moment,  child,"  said  the  old  man,  forgetting 
for  the  moment,  apparently,  his  environment.  "  I 
must  look  at  the  ship.  Good-morning,  Barry,"  he 
continued,  as  the  sailor  approached  him  ;  "  is  it  well 
with  the  ship?" 

"A  good  piece  of  it  went  down  last  night,  your 
honor,  I'm  sorry  to  say.  It  lies  off  on  the  port  side, 
yonder,  under  the  lee,  but  nothin'  vital  yet,  sir." 

"  I  did  not  think  to  see  it  this  morning.  Bit  by  bit 
it  wears  away.  Well,  please  God,  there  will  be  an  end 
some  day." 

64 


CHAPTER   IX 


THE   SWORD  OF  THE  CONSTITUTION 

CLOTHED  in  his  own  uniform,  but  hardly 
in  his  right  mind,  Mr.  Richard  Revere 
sat  down  late  in  the  afternoon  to  con- 
sider the  situation. 

He  had  passed  a  delightfully  idle  day 
in  the  society  of  the  admiral  and  his  granddaughter ; 
principally,  it  must  be  confessed,  and  in  so  far  as  he 
could  contrive  it,  with  the  latter.  Her  cunning  fingers 
had  mended  the  rents  in  his  uniform,  which  had  been 
dried  and  put  into  a  passably  wearable  condition. 
The  versatility  of  her  education  and  the  variety  of 
her  accomplishments  were  evidenced  to  him  when  he 
saw  that  she  wielded  the  needle  as  deftly  as  she 
steered  the  boat. 

They  had  sat  on  the  porch  most  of  the  time  in  the 
pleasant  fall  weather,  and  the  dozing  old  admiral 
offered  but  little  check  to  the  freedom  of  their  inter- 
course. In  response  to  her  insistent  questioning,  this 
young  Telemachus,  cast  up  by  the  sea  at  her  feet, 
poured  into  the  ear  of  this  new  Calypso  stories  of  the 
naval  battles  in  which  he  had  participated  and  whose 
honorable  scars  he  bore.  Like  Desdemona,  she  loved 
him  for  the  dangers  he  had  passed. 
s  65 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

She  was  familiar  with  the  history  of  the  old  navy, 
of  which  the  admiral  had  been  one  of  the  brightest 
stars.  Many  a  tale  had  the  old  man  told  her  of  storm 
and  tempest,  battle  and  triumph,  shipwreck  and  disas- 
ter, and  his  own  adventures  and  distinguished  career 
she  knew  by  heart.  Although  the  great  wave  of  the 
Civil  War  had  ebbed  and  flowed  far  to  the  south  of 
them,  she  and  her  grandfather  had  prayerfully  and 
anxiously  followed  its  mighty  course,  especially  on  the 
sea ;  yet  it  so  happened  that  this  was  the  first  time 
that  either  of  them  had  been  brought  in  personal  con- 
tact with  its  naval  side.  A  returning  volunteer,  a 
wounded  soldier, — for  the  little  town  had  done  its 
patriotic  part  with  the  rest, — had  sometimes  brought 
fresher  news  of  the  battles  than  might  be  read  in  the 
papers,  but  no  sailor  had  come  to  tell  them  how 
Farragut  had  damned  the  torpedoes  and  steamed 
through  the  pass  until  Revere  told  the  thrilling  story 
of  the  immortal  fight 

The  admiral  waked  up  while  this  was  being  re- 
counted, and  he  pressed  the  young  man  with  the  keen 
questions  of  a  veteran  who  knew  well  the  sound  of 
battle  and  had  fronted  the  enemy  undismayed.  Even 
the  story  of  the  wound  that  disabled  Revere  must  be 
told,  in  spite  of  his  reluctance  to  mention  it,  and 
Emily  dropped  the  needle  and  listened  with  bated 
breath  to  the  simple  and  modest  recital. 

"Were  you  ever  wounded,  admiral?"  questioned 
the  young  sailor,  when  he  had  finished  his  story. 

"  Never,  by  God's  providence,"  said  the  old  man  ; 
"  though  I  came  near  to  it  once. ' ' 

66 


THE  SWORD  OF  THE  CONSTITUTION 

"And  how  was  that,  sir?" 

"  Well,  sir,  when  the  old  Constitution  took  the  Cyane 
and  the  Levant,  a  shot  from  the  Cyane  struck  the  hilt  of 
my  sword,  carried  it  away,  and  slewed  me  about  so  that 
I  thought  for  a  moment  that  I  had  been  hit  in  the  side. 
It  was  a  Spanish  blade,  and  I  prized  it  highly.  I  was 
lucky  enough  to  give  some  succor  to  a  Spanish  brig  in 
distress  down  in  the  West  Indies  on  a  certain  occasion, 
years  before,  and  His  Most  Catholic  Majesty  of  Spain 
was  pleased  to  present  me  with  a  sword  for  it,  a  beau- 
tiful Toledo  blade,  the  finest  sword  I  ever  saw.  It 
was  richly  hilted  and  scabbarded,  as  became  such  a 
weapon,  and  I  always  wore  it  in  action.  Of  course, 
the  hilt  was  ruined  by  the  shot,  and  the  armorer  of 
the  Constitution  made  a  rude  guard  out  of  a  piece  of 
iron  he  took  from  the  Levant  after  she  struck,  to  re- 
place the  broken  hilt,  and  I've  never  cared  to  change 
it  since." 

"I  saw  it  this  morning  in  Miss  Emily's  room,"  said 
Revere.  "  I  took  the  liberty  of  examining  it,  and  I 
was  struck  by  the  beauty  of  the  blade  and  the  rough- 
ness of  the  hilt  I  quite  agree  with  you,  sir.  I  should 
not  have  it  changed  for  anything." 

"  I  call  it  the  sword  of  the  Constitution,"  said  Emily. 

"  How  comes  it  in  your  room,  may  I  ask,  Miss 
Emily?" 

"  Grandfather  gave  it  to  me.  I  am  the  only  son  of 
the  house,  you  see,"  she  continued  with  a  melancholy 
sigh.  "  I  would  that  I  had  been  a  man." 

"That  is  a  wish  in  which  I  cannot  join  you,"  said 
the  young  officer,  quickly. 

67 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

"I  think  it's  a  pity,"  responded  the  girl,  "that  so 
great  and  gallant  a  sailor  as  my  grandfather  should 
leave  no  one  to  bear  his  name." 

"  My  dear  young  lady,  his  name  is  borne  in  our  his- 
tory and  upon  our  hearts,"  answered  Revere,  quickly. 
"  The  world  will  never  forget  '  Old  Ironsides'  and  her 
last  great  fighting  captain.  The  new  navy  is  the 
child  of  the  old,  and,  in  a  certain  sense,  we  all  feel 
the  obligations  of  such  distinguished  ancestry.  As 
for  me,  that  I  have  been  permitted  to  meet  you,  sir," 
he  said,  turning  to  the  admiral,  "  in  this  intimate  and 
familiar  way,  is  one  of  the  proudest  moments  of  my 
life." 

"  Is  it  so  ?"  said  the  old  man,  simply  ;  "  we  only  did 
our  duty  then,  just  as  you  are  doing  it  now.  Dave 
Farragut,  now,  he  was  trained  in  our  school " 

"  And  we  are  trained  in  his  school  ;  so  you  see  here 
is  a  connection.  Some  day  we  may  show  what  we 
have  learned  from  him,  as  he  showed  what  he  had 
learned  from  you." 

"  I  doubt  it  not,  young  sir,  I  doubt  it  not ;  and 
while  I  have  no  sons  or  grandsons  to  bear  my  name, 
yet  Emily  is  a  good  child.  No  one  could  wish  for  a 
better  daughter." 

"  Of  that  I  am  quite  sure,"  interrupted  the  lieu- 
tenant, spontaneously. 

"And,  perhaps,"  continued  the  admiral,  simply, 
"  in  the  hands  of  her  children  the  sword  of  the  Con- 
stitution may  again  be  drawn  in  the  service  of  our 
beloved  country.  But  where  is  Barry?  The  sun 

is  just  setting.  He  should Ah,  there  he  is. 

68 


THE  SWORD  OF  THE  CONSTITUTION 

Evening  colors,  Mr.  Revere,"  said  the  veteran,  rising 
to  his  feet  as  the  gun  on  the  terrace  boomed  out  in 
salute,  and  standing  still  until  the  colors  slowly  and 
gracefully  floated  down. 

One  of  the  most  beautiful  of  sights  is  the  fall  of 
a  flag,  when  it  comes  down  by  your  own  hand  and 
betokens  no  surrender.  The  declining  banner  lingers 
in  the  evening  air  with  sweet  reluctance  until  it  finally 
drops  into  waiting  hands  with  a  touch  like  a  caress. 

"  You  see,  we  keep  up  the  customs  of  the  service 
as  near  as  we  can,  sir.  How  is  the  ship,  Barry?"  the 
admiral  asked,  as  the  old  sailor  delivered  his  re- 
port, as  he  had  done  the  evening  before  and  on  all 
the  evenings  of  their  long  sojourn  on  Ship  House 
Point. 

"I  have  a  fond  fancy,  Mr.  Revere,"  resumed  the 
veteran,  after  the  termination  of  the  customary  con- 
versation with  the  sailor,  "that  the  ship  and  I  will 
sail  into  the  final  harbor  together.  Both  of  us  are 
old  and  worn  out,  laid  up  in  ordinary,  waiting  for  the 
end.  But  let  us  go  into  the  house.  The  night  air 
grows  chill  for  me.  Emily  shall  sing  to  us,  and  then 
I  shall  bid  you  good-night." 

The  girl's  sweet,  low  voice,  although  unaccom- 
panied, makes  rare  music  in  the  old  room.  The  ad- 
miral sits  with  his  eyes  closed,  a  smile  upon  his  lips, 
beating  the  time  upon  the  arm  of  his  chair  with  his 
withered  fingers.  The  songs  the  girl  sings  are  of 
the  music  of  the  past ;  the  words,  those  the  admiral 
heard  when  he  was  a  boy.  Now  it  is  a  rollicking 
sea-chorus  which  bubbles  from  her  young  lips,  now 

69 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

it  is  a  sweet  old  ballad  that  his  wife  sang  in  the  long 
ago  time.  His  head  nods,  and  he  says,  softly,  under 
his  breath,  half  in  time  with  the  rhythm, — 

"Ay,  just  so.  When  I  was  a  boy,  so  many  years 
ago  !" 

Revere  listens  entranced,  though  possibly  he  had 
arrived  at  such  a  state  that  he  would  have  listened 
entranced  if  she  had  sung  badly, — which  she  did  not. 
Her  voice,  though  untrained,  was  delightful.  It  had 
the  naturalness  of  bird  notes,  the  freshness  of  youth, 
and  the  purity  that  charms  the  world.  The  airs  were 
half-forgotten  things,  lingering  familiarly  in  his  mem- 
ory. He  may  have  heard  them  when  he  was  a  baby 
in  his  mother's  arms,  and  she  from  her  mother,  and 
so  on  down  through  the  long  line  of  ancient  ancestry 
maternal. 

The  sweetest  songs,  are  they  not  the  oldest  ?  Have 
not  the  peasants  of  Sicily  been  singing  the  music  of 
"Home,  Sweet  Home,"  for  a  thousand  years? 

And  so  the  young  man  listens  and  loves,  the  old 
man  listens  and  dreams,  and  the  girl  sings  as  never 
before,  for  this  time  she  knows  that  a  young  heart  beats 
in  harmony  with  her  voice.  Alas  for  the  old  !  he  has 
had  his  day.  Compelling  youth  enters  and  displaces 
him.  Emily  sings  not  merely  for  the  past,  but  with 
thoughts  reaching  out  into  the  future.  When  she 
stops,  fain  to  be  persuaded,  Revere  entreats  her  to  con- 
tinue, he  begs  for  more.  She  knows  not  how  to  refuse, 
indeed  does  not  wish  to  do  so,  so  she  sings  on  and  on. 
The  admiral  sleeps,  but  what  of  that?  Youth 
listens,  and  by  and  by,  as  she  strikes  something  that 

70 


THE  SWORD  OF  THE  CONSTITUTION 

he  knows,  in  a  fresh,  hearty  tenor  voice  he  ventures 
to  join  with  her.  In  the  harmony  of  their  voices 
they  almost  see  a  prophecy  of  the  future  harmony 
of  their  lives. 

Many  a  time  has  she  sung  to  the  admiral  and  the 
old  sailor,  but  never  quite  as  to-night.  And  Cap- 
tain Barry  has  not  been  there.  The  heavy  oaken 
chair,  which  he  made  himself  from  the  timbers  of  the 
ship,  which  stands  by  the  door,  and  which,  in  its  rude 
strength,  its  severe  plainness,  somehow  suggests  the 
man,  is  empty.  To  the  admiral  she  has  sung  like  a 
voice  from  the  past,  to  Barry  her  music  has  been  like 
that  of  an  angel  in  heaven,  to  Revere  it  is  the  voice 
of  the  woman  he  loves.  But  to-night,  although  he 
hears  the  music,  Captain  Barry  will  not  come  in.  He 
stands  on  the  porch,  peering  through  the  blinds. 
Unskilled  as  he  is  in  the  reading  of  character,  unac- 
customed to  the  observation  of  faces,  there  is  no 
mistaking,  even  in  the  sailor's  mind,  the  look  in  the 
eyes  of  Revere. 

The  young  man  sits  opposite  Emily,  listening  to 
her,  watching  her,  drinking  in  the  sweetness  of  the 
melody  and  the  beauty  of  her  face ;  the  light  that  is 
in  his  eye  is  the  light  of  a  love  that  has  come,  not  as 
the  oak  grows  from  the  tiny  seed,  slowly  developing 
through  the  ages,  and  spreading  and  bourgeoning  until 
it  fills  the  landscape,  but  the  glory  of  a  passion  that  has 
burst  upon  him  with  the  suddenness  of  a  tempest,  and 
one  that  promises  to  be  as  irresistible  in  its  onset.  And 
Barry  sees  it  all,  divines,  knows,  feels,  and  in  the  light 
of  another  love  recognizes  at  last  his  own  futile  pas- 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

sion.     The  revelation  of  hopelessness  in  the  light  of 
hope,  of  despair  in  the  glow  of  success. 

Never  had  the  Bostonian  been  brought  in  contact 
with  a  personality  quite  like  that  of  Emily.  '  More 
beautiful  girls,  measured  by  the  canons,  he  had  seen, 
possibly ;  wiser  in  the  world's  ways,  better  trained, 
more  accustomed  to  the  usages  of  society,  undoubt- 
edly ;  but  never  one  so  sweet,  so  innocent,  so  fresh,  so 
unspoiled,  so  lovely,  and  so  lovable.  As  frank  as  she 
was  beautiful,  as  brave  as  she  was  innocent,  as  pure 
as  she  was  strong.  There  was  no  use  denying  it ;  he 
could  not  disguise  it  ;  he  had  loved  her  from  the  mo- 
ment when,  standing  on  the  wreck,  he  saw  her  steer- 
ing the  skiff  in  the  storm,  with  her  fair  hair  blown  out 
by  the  breeze  and  her  face  turned  up  toward  him,  full 
of  encouragement  and  entreaty. 

And  Barry  knew  it  now. 

As  a  young  sailor,  Revere  had  flirted  and  frolicked 
with  many  girls,  he  had  been  staidly  engaged  to  an- 
other for  a  long  time,  but  not  until  that  day  had  he 
really  loved  any  one.  As  for  the  girl,  she  had  taken 
him  at  his  face  value  ;  and  while  it  would  hardly  be 
just  to  say  that  she  entirely  reciprocated  his  feeling, 
yet  it  was  easy  to  see  whither  her  heart  tended  and 
what  the  end  of  the  acquaintance  would  be  unless 
something  checked  the  course  of  the  growing  interest 
she  felt  in  the  young  man. 

Could  Barry  check  it  ?  He  yearned  to  try.  And 
all  these  things  were  plain  to  the  old  sailor.  He  sud- 
denly found  himself  dowered  with  an  unwonted 
ability  to  reason,  to  see,  to  read  beneath  the  surface. 

72 


THE   SWORD  OF  THE  CONSTITUTION 

'Twas  love's  enlightening  touch  ;  hopeless,  uncovet- 
ing,  yet  jealous  love,  that  opened  his  eyes.  Love 
blinds  ?  Ay,  but  he  enlightens,  too. 

Barry's  glance  through  the  window  ranged  from 
the  dozing  admiral  to  the  adoring  young  man,  and 
paused  over  the  face,  exalted,  of  the  young  woman. 
His  breath  came  hard  as  he  gazed,  his  heart  rose  in 
his  throat  and  tried  to  suffocate  him.  He  clinched 
his  hands,  closed  his  teeth — a  dangerous  man,  there, 
under  the  moonlight.  He  cursed  the  gay  young 
lieutenant  under  his  breath,  as  Adam  might  have 
cursed  the  serpent  who  gave  him,  through  the  woman, 
of  that  tree  of  knowledge  that  opened  his  eyes  and 
turned  his  paradise  into  a  hell. 


73 


CHAPTER   X 


FACING  WORLD-OLD  PROBLEMS 


WHEN  the  lights  in  the  house  were 
all  out,  and  they  had  all  gone  to 
their  rest  or  their  restlessness,  to 
their  dreams  or  their  oblivion,  the 
sailor  returned  to  his  ship.     Light- 
ing his  lantern,  that  hung  in  the  sheltered  corner  aft 
where  he  slung  his  hammock,  he  pulled   from  the 
breast  of  his  shirt  a  little   bundle  of  water-stained 
papers.     One  was  a  long,  official-looking  envelope, 
bearing   the    stamp    of    the  Navy    Department,  and 
evidently  containing  an  order  or  an  important  com- 
munication.    Barry  had  often  seen  such  envelopes 
addressed  to  the  admiral.     The  others,  if  he  could 
judge  from  the  outside,  were  private  letters,  and  the 
envelopes  bore,  he  thought,  a  woman's  handwriting. 
He  arrived    at   this  last  conclusion  instinctively,  for 
he  was  without  familiarity  with  such  things  ;  he  had 
scarcely  ever  received  a  letter  in  his  fifty  years  of 
life. 

He  had  found  them  that  morning  on  the  shore  by 
the  landing,  where  they  had  fallen  from  the -pocket  of 
Revere's  coat  the  night  before.  Instead  of  handing 
them  to  the  young  man,  he  had  retained  them  ; 

74 


FACING  WORLD-OLD  PROBLEMS 

moved  by  what  idea  that  they  might  be  of  value  to 
him  some  day,  who  could  say? 

The  envelopes  had  all  been  opened,  and  nothing 
prevented  him  from  examining  the  contents.  He 
was  but  a  rude  sailor  ;  the  niceties  and  refinements  of 
other  ranks  of  life  were  not  for  him,  yet  he  hesitated 
to  read  the  documents.  Two  or  three  times  he  half 
drew  one  of  the  letters  from  its  envelope  only  to 
thrust  it  resolutely  back.  Miss  Emily  would  not  have 
read  them,  nor  the  admiral  either  ;  that  he  knew. 
Finally  he  gathered  up  the  handful,  put  them  in  the 
locker  near  where  he  stood,  and  turned  the  key.  He 
would  not  read  them,  but  he  would  not  return  them, 
either. 

Ah,  Barry,  'tis  not  alone  hesitant  woman  who  loses  ! 

He  had  won  a  partial  advantage,  the  first  skirmish 
in  a  battle  which  was  to  be  renewed  with  increasing 
force  with  every  passing  hour.  He  would  have  given 
the  world  to  have  examined  those  documents  and 
papers.  They  would  tell  him  something  of  the  errand 
of  the  man,  perhaps  ;  but  he  had  not  reached  the 
breaking  point, — not  yet,  although,  under  the  influence 
of  his  furious  jealousy  and  consequent  animosity,  he 
was  not  far  from  it  Unconsciously  he  contrasted 
Revere  with  himself,  and  suffered  keenly  in  the  ever- 
growing realization  of  his  disadvantage.  Old,  com- 
mon, rude,  lonely,  faithful,  that  was  all, — and  it  was 
not  enough. 

As  for  Revere,  the  loss  of  the  letters,  which  he  had 
discovered  when  he  put  on  his  own  uniform,  an- 
noyed him  somewhat,  although  he  did  not  consider  it 

75 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

serious.  That  afternoon  he  had  written  to  the  Navy 
Department  detailing  his  accident  and  asking  that  new 
orders  be  made  out  for  him.  He  had  also  written  to 
his  mother,  lightly  mentioning  his  adventure  and  his 
lost  baggage,  and  directing  that  other  clothing  be  sent 
him  immediately  by  his  man.  In  this  letter  he  had  en- 
closed a  short  note  for  Josephine.  In  neither  of  them 
did  he  dwell  much  upon  Emily  Sanford. 

Of  the  trio  in  the  house  he  was  one  to  whom 
oblivion  did  not  come  readily  that  night.  He  was 
facing  a  very  serious  crisis  in  his  life.  He  had  been 
betrothed  to  Josephine  Remington,  a  far-off  connec- 
tion of  his  mother,  since  his  graduation,  and  the  be- 
trothal was  only  the  carrying  out  of  a  plan  which 
had  long  been  agreed  upon  between  the  respective 
families.  The  engagement  was  a  matter  of  general 
notoriety,  and  was  an  accepted  fact  among  their  many 
friends.  In  the  absence  of  any  other  affection,  he  had 
never  realized  that  he  had  not  loved  Josephine  as  he 
should,  and  never  suspected,  until  he  had  felt  the 
touch  of  genuine  passion,  and  had  become  thereby  an 
authority  upon  the  subject,  that  she  did  not  love  him 
either. 

But  what  was  to  be  done  was  a  grave  question. 
Was  it  right  for  him  to  make  love  to  Emily  Sanford, 
which  he  had  certainly  done,  by  implication  at  least, 
and  which  he  certainly  wanted  to  do  directly  and  un- 
equivocally, under  the  circumstances  ?  or,  was  it  right 
to  allow  Emily  Sanford  to  fall  in  love  with  him,  which, 
without  vanity,  he  felt  she  might  do,  and  which  he 
fervently  hoped  with  all  his  soul  she  would  do,  while 

76 


FACING  WORLD-OLD  PROBLEMS 

he  was  engaged  to  Josephine  ?  It  certainly  was  not 
right  That  was  a  conclusion  about  which  there  could 
be  no  other  opinion. 

He  finally  resolved  that  he  would  treat  Emily  San- 
ford  with  proper  reserve,  and  circumspectly  watch  his 
conduct  toward  her  for  the  present  Perhaps  it  would 
be  best,  after  all,  to  try  to  put  her  out  of  his  heart  and 
keep  to  his  engagement  his  mind  suggested  faintly. 
That  was  impossible  he  felt  in  his  heart  It  was  Emily 
or  nothing.  No,  he  could  not  and  he  would  not.  He 
must  at  once  secure  a  release  from  the  one  so  that  he 
could  have  the  right  to  woo  the  other  honorably  and 
openly. 

Yet,  how  to  be  free  ?  Could  he  ask  Josephine  to 
release  him  ?  What  would  his  mother  think  of  such 
a  demand,  and  how  would  his  conduct  in  the  affair  be 
regarded  by  his  friends  ?  And  yet  he  could  not  carry 
out  his  engagement.  That  was  final.  In  one  moment 
the  delusion  of  years  which  he  had  accepted — nay, 
even  encouraged — with  a  youth's  indifference  had 
been  swept  away.  Love  had  smitten  him  ;  his  eyes, 
too,  had  been  opened.  Whatever  betided,  there  was 
but  one  woman  in  the  world  for  him.  Yet  he  must 
conceal  his  feeling  and  make  no  avowal  until  he  was 
free.  Poor  Richard  !  He  did  not  realize  that  the  man 
does  not  live  who  can  conceal  from  the  woman  he 
loves  the  fact  that  he  loves  her.  It  is  in  the  very  air 
and  nature  has  a  thousand  ways  to  tell  the  tale,  with 
each  one  of  which  the  most  untutored  woman  sud- 
denly grows  familiar  at  the  right  moment 

They  were  puzzling  and  annoying  questions,  but, 
77 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

with  a  conduct  quite  what  would  be  expected  from  so 
gallant  a  sailor,  he  at  last  made  up  his  mind.  Of  one 
thing  he  was  certain, — that  he  loved  Emily,  and  that 
she  was  the  only  woman  in  the  world  for  him.  And  he 
would  be  free.  So  Revere,  like  Barry,  hesitated  and 
was  lost ! 

Even  the  situation  with  regard  to  the  old  ship  was 
a  puzzling  one.  There  would  be  no  evading  the 
orders  of  the  government.  The  ship  must  be  sold  to 
the  best  advantage  and  broken  up.  Yet  to  destroy 
the  ship  was  to  write  the  admiral's  death-warrant.  He 
had  to  obey  his  orders.  No  sentimental  considera- 
tions would  be  allowed  to  interfere  with  the  command 
of  the  department.  Still,  how  could  he  do  it?  He 
did  not  dare  tell  the  news  to  the  admiral,  he  could  not 
mention  it  to  Emily,  he  would  not  even  like  to  declare 
it  to  the  old  sailor. 

The  more  he  considered  the  situation  the  more  un- 
fortunate the  position  in  which  he  found  himself.  As 
a  lover, — of  Emily,  that  is, — he  was  pledged  to  an- 
other woman.  As  a  guest  of  the  admiral,  he  was 
there  to  take  away  the  ship.  And,  although  he  en- 
tered little  into  his  calculations,  he  might  have  added, 
had  he  known  it,  that  on  both  counts,  ship  and 
maiden,  he  was  about  to  break  the  heart  of  the  man 
who  had  saved  his  life.  And  all  of  this  had  been 
brought  about  in  the  most  innocent  and  unwitting 
way.  He  felt  himself,  in  some  strange  manner,  the 
sport  of  a  hard  and  malignant  fortune. 

The  night  was  still  and  calm  to  the  admiral,  sleep- 
ing dreamlessly  without  foreboding  ;  but  to  his  grand- 

78 


FACING  WORLD-OLD  PROBLEMS 

daughter — ah,  she  was  the  dreamer.  This  young 
hero,  this  demigod  from  over  the  sea,  how  he  had 
looked  at  her,  how  he  had  listened  to  her,  how  his 
eyes  had  seemed  to  pierce  the  very  depths  of  her 
maiden  soul !  He  had  not  complimented  her  upon 
her  singing ;  he  had  only  asked  for  more  and  still 
more.  And  how  beautifully  his  voice  had  blended  with 
hers  !  Was  he,  indeed,  the  fairy  prince  come  at  last  to 
awaken  the  sleeping  beauty  of  her  passion, — to  kiss 
into  life  the  too  long  dormant  feeling  in  her  heart  ? 

There  are  songs  without  words  in  maidens'  hearts, 
and  one  of  them  rippled  through  the  innocence  of 
her  girlish  soul  in  the  still  watches  of  that  heavenly 
night. 

And  they  all  forgot  old  Barry  alone  on  the  ship. 


79 


CHAPTER   XI 


BLOWS  AT  THE  HEART 


K^ERE  spent  the  next  morning  in  a  thor- 
ough inspection  of  the  ship.     It  was  a 
duty  enjoined  upon  him  in  the  carry- 
ing out  of  his  orders,  and  he  had  felt 
somewhat   guilty   in  having  neglected 
it  the  day  before.     His  Naval  Academy  course  had 
included  instruction  in  wooden  ship-building, — iron 
ships  were  only  just  beginning  to  be  at  that  date, — 
and  he   therefore  viewed  the  Susquehanna  with  the 
eyes  of  an  expert.     At  his  own  request,  he  had  been 
attended  in  this  survey  by  the  sailor  Barry,  although 
it  is  more  than  probable  that,  in  any  case,  the  old 
man  would  have  insisted  upon  accompanying  him. 

With  what  jealous  pain  the  veteran  seaman  dogged 
the  footsteps  of  the  young  sailor  and  watched  him 
examine  his  beloved  ship  !  Nothing  escaped  Revere's 
rigid  scrutiny.  Barry  himself,  after  his  years  of 
familiarity  with  the  old  hulk,  could  not  have  made  a 
more  exhaustive  investigation.  There  was  but  one 
spot  which  Revere  did  not  view.  That  was  the  pri- 
vate locker  which  the  old  seaman  had  made  for  him- 
self in  the  one  habitable  portion  of  the  ship. 

"What's  this?"  Revere  had  asked,  pausing  before 
80 


BLOWS  AT  THE  HEART 

the  closed,  locked  door.  "Your  traps,  eh?  Well, 
I  guess  we  have  no  need  to  inspect  them,"  he  con- 
tinued, smiling,  and  passing  on. 

Yet,  had  he  known  it,  behind  that  closed  door  lay 
his  fate,  for  the  lost  letters  and  papers — which  Barry 
had  not  yet  read — were  there. 

The  keen,  critical  examination  of  the  old  ship  by 
the  young  lieutenant  enhanced  the  growing  animos- 
ity of  the  sailor.  His  cool  comments  seemed  like  a 
profanation.  Barry  felt  as  if  his  enemy  were  apprais- 
ing the  virtues  of  his  wife  ;  as  if,  examining  her  in 
her  old  age,  he  were  disappointed  and  surprised  at 
not  finding  in  her  the  qualities  and  excellencies  of 
her  youth.  Every  prying  finger  touch,  crumbling  the 
rotting  wood,  was  a  desecration.  Every  blow  struck 
upon  the  timbers  to  test  their  soundness  was  an 
added  insult. 

Had  the  young  man  been  less  intent  upon  that 
task  he  would  have  seen  in  the  clouded  brow,  the 
closed  lips,  the  stern  expression  upon  his  companion's 
face  something  of  the  older  man's  exacerbated  feel- 
ings ;  but,  engrossed  by  his  inspection,  he  noticed 
nothing.  Indeed,  like  many  very  young  naval  officers 
of  the  time,  he  thought  but  little  of  the  sailor  at 
best.  He  was  a  part — and  a  very  essential  part — 
of  the  vast  naval  machine,  of  course,  but  otherwise 
nothing.  When  Revere  grew  older  he  would  learn 
to  estimate  the  value  of  the  man  upon  the  yard-arm, 
the  man  behind  the  gun,  and  to  rate  him  more  highly  ; 
but  at  present  his  attitude  was  more  or  less  one  of 
indifference. 

e  81 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

It  was   true  that  Barry,  equally  with  Emily,  had 
saved  his  life  ;  but  by  a  perfectly  natural  trick  of  the 
mind — or     heart,    rather — all  the   heroism     of   that 
splendid  achievement  had  focussed  itself  about  the 
woman,  and  to  Revere  the  man  became  an  incident 
rather  than  a  cause, — merely  a  detail.     Just  as  the 
captain  who  leads  the  forlorn  hope  gets  the  men- 
tion in  the  despatches  and  enrolls  his  name  upon  the 
pages  of  history,  to  the  exclusion  of  those  other  men, 
perhaps  no  less  brave  than  he,  who  followed  him,  so 
Emily  stood  to  the  fore,  and  Barry's  part  was  already 
half  forgotten.     This   carelessly  oblivious  attitude  of 
mind,  which  he  divined  even  in  the  absence  of  any 
very  specific  outward  evidence  of  it,  added  to  the  ex- 
asperation of  the  sailor,  and  he  fairly  hated  the  officer. 
"There  are  certain  categories  of  the  mind  which 
must  be  true,  else  would  reason  reel  and  totter  on  its 
throne."     As  an  illustration,  we  cannot  think  of  love 
without  thinking  of  hate,  and  perhaps  the  capacity 
for  one  may  be  measured  by  the  ability  for  the  other. 
The  man  who  loves  high  things,  burns  with  corre- 
sponding hatred  for  the  base, — or  else  something  is 
lacking  in  his  love  ;  and,  as  is  the  case  with  all  other 
antitheses  of  sentiment,  both  feelings  find  lodgment 
in  the  normal  mind. 

Barry  had  loved  through  years.  He  had  loved  the 
admiral,  he  had  loved  the  ship,  and,  above  all,  he  had 
loved  the  girl.  The  peaceful,  quiet,  even  tenor  of 
his  life  had  offered  no  lodgment  for  antagonisms.  To 
love,  to  serve, — that  had  been  his  happy  existence. 
Living  alone  on  Ship  House  Point,  attending  to  his 

82 


BLOWS  AT  THE  HEART 

simple  duties,  wrapped  up  in  his  devotion,  he  had 
found  neither  cause  nor  reason  for  hatred,  and  when 
that  awful  passion  found  a  lodgment  in  his  bosom,  it 
came  so  suddenly,  so  violently,  that  it  destroyed  the 
mental  and  spiritual  balance  of  the  man.  The  fac- 
ulty of  hating  had  years  of  disuse  to  make  up  for,  and 
the  feeling  swept  over  him  like  a  tidal  wave,  uncon- 
trollable, appalling.  The  swiftness  with  which  it  de- 
veloped had  but  added  to  his  confusion.  There  is 
love  at  first  sight,  but  there  is  antipathy  as  well.  He 
was  a  living  illustration  of  the  latter  fact. 

So  perverted  had  become  the  sailor's  mind,  under 
the  influence  of  this  rising  feeling,  that  in  his  bewil- 
derment he  sometimes  fancied  that  his  antipathy  was 
universal, — that  he  hated  the  admiral,  the  ship,  Emily, 
himself !  Yet  this  could  not  be  ;  and  in  calmer  mo- 
ments, although  without  the  power  of  analysis,  he 
realized  dumbly  that  these  griping  emotions  were 
but  the  concomitants  of  his  obsession. 

Of  all  this  the  lieutenant  was  yet  blithely  uncon- 
scious. It  is  said  that  but  a  single  object  can  en- 
gross the  mind  at  one  time,  and  that  concepts  of 
other  objects,  even  if  simultaneous  therewith,  are 
merely  auxiliary  thereto.  Emily  filled  Revere' s  men- 
tal horizon  to  the  exclusion  of  everything  else.  It 
was  with  difficulty  he  kept  his  mind  away  from  her 
when,  in  pursuance  of  his  duty,  he  inspected  the 
ship.  To  Barry  he  paid  but  little  attention,  noticing 
him,  if  at  all,  in  the  most  perfunctory  way.  Disas- 
sociated from  Emily,  the  sailor  counted  for  nothing. 

To  his  relief  and  Barry's,  presently  the  long  task 

83 

* 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

was  over.  The  duty  discharged,  the  two  men  scram- 
bled down  the  battens  which  Barry  had  nailed  to  the 
side  of  the  hulk  to  enable  him  to  pass  to  and  from 
the  deck,  and  stood  on  the  grass  in  the  shadow  of 
the  ship. 

"Well,"  said  Revere,  "she  has  been  a  fine  ship  in 
her  day,  Barry." 

"Ay,  sir;  none  better." 

"  See  how  sharp  she  is  in  the  lines  of  her  bow ; 
look  at  the  graceful  swell  forward.  See  how  she  fines 
down  in  her  run  aft,  yonder.  She  should  have  been 
a  good  goer.  The  ship  was  built  for  speed  as  well 
as  strength ;  and  probably  she  was  laid  out  by  the 
rule-of-thumb,  too,"  he  continued,  reflectively.  "  We 
don't  build  better  to-day,  with  all  our  boasted  science. 
Yes,  she  was  a  fine  ship.  I  should  like  to  have  com- 
manded her  ;  but  she  is  worthless  now." 

"Worthless!"  exploded  the  old  sailor,  darkly; 
"worthless  !" 

"  Absolutely.  There  is  hardly  a  sound  plank  in 
her.  The  iron  bolts,  even,  are  rusted.  I  wonder 
how  she  holds  together.  The  habit  of  years,  per- 
haps ;  nothing  else,  surely.  She's  a  positive  danger. 
Some  day  she'll  fall  to  pieces,  and,  if  I  were  you,  I'd 
sleep  elsewhere." 

"  My  God,  sir  !"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  wrath- 
fully,  his  face  changing  ;  "  you  don't  know  what  you're 
sayin'  !  You  can't  mean  it !  Me  leave  the  ship  ! 
I've  slept  on  her  for  twenty-five  years.  You're 
wrong,  sir  !  She's  good  for  many  a  year  yet.  Some 
of  the  planks  is  rottin',  I  grant  you,  but  most  of  the 

84 


BLOWS  AT  THE  HEART 

frames  is  good  yet,  an'  she's  sound  at  the  heart 
She'll  weather  many  a  storm,  you'll  see.  Sound  at 
the  heart !  Leave  her  !  I'll  leave  her  when  she 
falls,  and  the  admiral,  too.  He's  an  old  man.  My 
father  sailed  with  him  ;  he  was  a  man  when  I  was  a 
boy ;  yet  he's  alive  still,  an'  he'll  live  as  long  as  she 
does,  too." 

"Nonsense,  man  !"  said  Revere  ;  "you  are  dreaming  ! 
The  ship  ought  to  be  broken  up.  She  might  be 
worth  something  as  stove-wood  of  inferior  quality," 
he  continued,  carelessly,  and  ruthlessly,  too  ;  "  but  I 
tell  you  she's  a  menace  to  every  one  who  comes  here." 

"  Broken  up,  sir  !"  gasped  the  man,  forgetting  duty, 
courtesy,  everything,  in  his  anger;  "by  heaven,  I'd 
rather  set  fire  to  her  with  my  own  hands  an'  burn 
her  down  !  Burn  the  life  out  of  the  admiral,  an'  out 
of  me,  too,  than  a  timber  on  her  should  be  touched  ! 
I  tell  you,  I've  lived  on  her.  I  know  her.  I  love  her  ! 
Don't  dare  to " 

"  Look  here,  Barry,"  said  the  young  man,  quickly, 
but  with  great  firmness,  "  you  are  rated  a  boatswain's 
mate  in  the  United  States  navy,  I  believe,  and  as 
such  I  will  have  to  caution  you  not  to  address  me  in 
this  imperious  way.  There,  man,  hang  it  all,  I 
oughtn't  to  have  said  that,  perhaps,"  he  continued, 
as  he  saw  the  man's  face  working  with  grief  and  rage. 
"You  saved  my  life,  you  know,  and  the  ship,  I  sup- 
pose, is  dear  to  you,  and  I  can  well  understand  it 
We'll  say  no  more  about  it" 

"I  wish  to  God  I  hadn't,"  muttered  the  sailor,  en- 
tirely unmollified. 

85 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

"Well,  now,  that's  rather  ungracious  of  you  ;  but, 
never  mind,  you  did,  and  I  can  forgive  an  old  salt  a 
good  deal ;  only  there  is  one  thing  I  must  say  :  Miss 
Emily  must  not  go  aboard  the  ship  any  more.  You 
can  risk  your  life  if  you  want  to,  but  I  won't  have 
her  risk  hers  ;  it's  dangerous." 

The  old  man  noted  the  cool,  proprietary  note  in  the 
voice,  and  broke  into  fury ;  difference  of  rank  and 
station  quite  obliterated  from  his  perturbed  mind. 

"Mustn't,  sir!  Mustn't!  I  may  be  a  bo's'n's 
mate,  sir,  an'  you  can  command  me,  but  you've  got 
no  call  to  say  'mustn't'  to  Miss  Emily." 

"  Of  course  not ;  but  I  shall  speak  to  the  admiral. 
There,  now,  that  will  do.  Keep  cool.  No  harm's 
done.  I  have  inspected  the  ship  and  shall  report  on 
her." 

"  What  are  you  goin'  to  report,  sir?" 

"Well,  by  George  !  If  you  are  not  the  most  ex- 
traordinary blue-jacket  I  ever  saw  !  What  I  report 
will  be  sent  to  the  Secretary  of  the  Navy.  I  do  not 
publish  it  to  the  ship's  crew.  What's  the  matter  with 
you,  man  ?  Pull  yourself  together.  You  seem  to  be 
in  a  dreadful  state." 

"What  are  you  goin'  to  do  with  the  ship?"  insisted 
Barry,  savagely. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  do  anything  with  her.  I  have 
been  sent  here  to  report  on  her,  and  I  shall  report." 

The  situation  had  become  tense.  The  young  officer 
felt  that  he  had  humored  the  sailor  long  enough  ;  in- 
deed, that  he  had  allowed  him  far  more  freedom  in  his 
address  than  he  would  had  given  any  one  else.  Ignorant 

86 


BLOWS  AT  THE  HEART 

of  the  mainspring  of  the  man's  apparent  antipathy  to 
him,  possessing  no  clew  to  the  cause  of  it,  unable  to 
divine  Barry's  mental  condition,  he  had  been  greatly 
surprised  by  his  insolent  and  insulting  conduct.  It 
seemed  to  the  lieutenant  that  his  forbearance  had 
reached  its  limit,  and  that  something  would  have  to 
give  way.  In  another  second  there  would  have  been 
trouble. 

The  state  of  affairs  was  relieved  by  the  cause  of  it, 
for  Emily  appeared  on  the  brow  of  the  hill  at  that 
moment  and  called  to  the  sailor.  The  old  man  in- 
stantly turned  on  his  heel  and,  without  deigning  to 
notice  the  young  man,  walked  toward  her.  Revere 
followed  him  promptly,  and  both  men  arrived  at  the 
top  of  the  hill  before  her  at  the  same  moment. 

By  a  violent  effort  the  sailor  had  smoothed  some  of 
the  passion  out  of  his  face,  though  he  still  looked 
white  and  angry. 

"What's  the  matter,  Captain  Barry?"  she  asked, 
noticing  his  altered  visage. 

The  man  stood  silent  before  her,  not  trusting  him- 
self to  speak,  especially  as  it  would  have  been  difficult 
to  assign  a  tangible  cause  for  his  feelings,  real  though 
they  were. 

"I  think  I  can  tell  you,  Miss  Emily,"  said  Revere, 
pleasantly.  "  I  have  been  inspecting  the  ship,  and  the 
man  has  not  liked  my  opinion  of  her,  I  fancy." 

"  Captain  Barry  is  very  fond  of  the  old  ship,  Mr. 
Revere,"  said  Emily,  quietly,  "  and  I  doubt  not  that 
any  inspection  of  her  hurts  him." 

The  sailor  looked  at  the  girl  gratefully,  as  a  dog 
87 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

might  have  done.  The  young  man's  heart  went  out 
to  her,  too,  for  her  kindly  championship  of  the  older 
man.  He  was  glad,  indeed,  that  she  had  found  a 
way  to  dispel  his  anger,  for  the  lieutenant  was  a  kind- 
hearted  young  fellow,  and  would  have  all  others 
about  him  happy,  especially  in  this  beginning  of  his 
romance. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  generously,  "  perhaps  I  did  speak 
rather  harshly  of  the  ship.  You  see  I  hardly  realized 
how  you  all  love  the  old  thing,  and  indeed  'tis  a  fine, 
melancholy  old  picture." 

"  It  always  reminds  me  of  grandfather  and  Captain 
Barry — old  on  the  one  hand,  strong  on  the  other," 
responded  Emily,  divining  the  instinct  of  considera- 
tion in  his  heart  that  had  prompted  Revere' s  words, 
and  smiling  graciously  at  him. 

It  was  reward  enough  for  him,  he  thought,  as  he  re- 
turned her  approving  glance  with  interest. 

"You  called  me,  Miss  Emily,"  said  the  uncom- 
promising Barry,  speaking  at  last.  "Do  you  want 
me?" 

"  Yes  ;  I  am  going  over  to  the  village,  and  I  wish  you 
to  row  me  across  the  harbor." 

"  By  no  means,  Miss  Emily,"  broke  in  Revere, 
promptly.  "  I  claim  that  honor  for  myself." 

"  Do  you  think  you  are  quite  strong  enough  to 
do  it?" 

"Strong  enough!"  he  exclaimed.  "  Certainly  I 
am  !  I  should  like  nothing  better.  Besides,  I  have 
business  in  the  town  myself:  I  expect  answers  to 
some  letters  and  my  man  with  a  portmanteau  and 


BLOWS  AT  THE  HEART 

some  other  clothes.  I  should  be  delighted  to  row 
you  to  the  village  or  anywhere." 

"Well,  "said  Emily,  hesitating,  "  Captain  Barry  al- 
ways rows  me  and " 

"  All  the  more  reason  for  giving  him  a  rest ;  he  is 
old  and  will  be  glad  of  this  relief.  Let  the  duty  be 
performed  by  younger  hands.  Come,  then,  if  you 
will  allow  me." 

Barry  stood  silent  during  this  little  colloquy.  His 
face,  when  Emily  glanced  at  it,  was  as  impassive  as  if 
he  had  been  a  stone  image.  He  was  putting  great 
constraint  upon  himself,  determined  not  to  betray  his 
feeling.  If  she  could  choose  Revere,  the  acquaint- 
ance of  a  moment,  and  disregard  him,  the  servant  of 
years,  let  her  do  so.  He  would  see.  Not  by  word 
or  look  would  he  try  to  influence  her.  If  he  had 
ever  heard  of  the  Spartan  with  the  wolf  at  his  vitals, 
he  would  have  realized  what  the  story  meant  then. 

Now,  Emily  much  preferred  to  have  Revere  row 
her ;  he  was  a  much  more  congenial  companion  than 
the  grim,  silent  sailor.  There  was  a  sympathy,  already 
an  affection,  developing  between  them  which  made 
her  greatly  enjoy  his  society.  She  would  not  have 
hesitated  a  moment,  therefore,  but  for  a  certain 
understanding  of  the  feeling  entertained  for  her  by 
the  sailor.  Not  a  sufficient  comprehension,  how- 
ever, to  amount  to  an  assurance,  but  a  deep  enough 
realization  to  give  her  pause.  What  woman  is  there 
without  that  much  comprehension?  But  when  she 
saw  Barry  standing  before  her,  impassive,  stern, 
apparently  indifferent,  her  hesitation  left  her  for  the 

89 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

moment,  and,  bidding  the  sailor  inform  her  grand- 
father of  her  departure,  she  turned  and  descended  the 
hill,  followed  by  the  lieutenant. 

As  the  two  walked  away  the  tension  on  the  man 
was  released  or  broken.  He  stood  trembling,  look- 
ing after  them.  A  flower  which  Emily  had  been 
wearing  had  fallen  upon  the  walk.  In  other  days  he 
would  have  picked  it  up  and  carried  it  carefully  to 
the  ship  as  a  priceless  treasure.  Now  he  ground  it 
brutally  under  his  heavy  heel  and  stared  at  them,  al- 
most unconscious  of  his  action,  quivering  with  voice- 
less rage.  Presently  he  went  up  to  the  old  admiral, 
sitting  dreaming  on  the  porch,  and,  having  mastered 
himself  somewhat  again,  delivered  his  message. 

Out  in  the  harbor  the  little  skiff,  the  same  by  means 
of  which  Revere's  life  had  been  saved,  danced  merrily 
along. 

"  I  like  to  see  the  young  people  together,  Barry," 
said  the  old  man,  gazing  after  them.  "'Twas  a  fortu- 
nate gale  that  wrecked  him  at  our  door.  We  shall  be 
going  soon,  you  and  I  and  the  ship,  and  who  will  take 
care  of  Emily  then?  Perhaps " 

He  spoke  slowly  and  he  did  not  finish  the  sentence, 
yet  the  concluding  thought  was  perfectly  plain  to  the 
sailor. 

He  raged  over  it  as  he  returned  to  the  ship. 


90 


CHAPTER   XII 


BROKEN  RESOLUTIONS 


FOR  the  preliminary  stages  in  the  making 
of  love  there  is  scarcely  anything  that  is 
so    delightful  and   convenient  as  a  small 
boat  just  large  enough  for  two. 
Emily  sat  aft  in  the  seat  of  honor,  holding 
the  yoke-lines  and  steering  the  skiff.     In  front  of,  and 
facing,  her  was  Revere,  with  the  oars,  which,  impelled 
by  his  powerful  arms,  afforded  the  motive  power  that 
speeded  the  boat  on  her  way.     He  had  been  well 
trained,  of  course,  and  he  rowed  with  the  skill  of  a  prac- 
tised oarsman,  a  long,  steady  man-o'-war  stroke,  quick 
on  the  recover,  delicate  in  the  feather,  deep  and  strong 
in  the  pull,  which  sent  the  boat  flying  over  the  water. 
It  was  a  sunny,  delightful  morning.     The  breeze 
blew  soft  over  the  harbor,  and  the  water,   rippling, 
bubbling,  and  lipping  around  the  prow,  made  music 
suited   indeed  to  words  of  love  and  beating  hearts. 
Yet  what  they  said  was  commonplace  enough,  after 
all     They  did  not  say  anything,  in  fact,  for  a  few 
moments  after  they  had  pushed  off  from  the  little 
wharf.     Revere  was  quite   content  to  drink   in  the 
exquisite  beauty  of  the  young  girl  reclining  in  the 
stern-sheets  before  him. 

91 


I 

WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

He  marked  the  freshness  and  sweetness  of  her  face, 
the  graceful  curves  of  her  vigorous,  yet  lissome,  young 
body,  and  her  dainty  feet — the  admiral  was  too 
thorough  an  aristocrat  not  to  see  his  granddaughter 
well  booted — peeping  out  from  beneath  the  hem  of 
her  cool,  flowing  muslin  skirt  before  him.  From 
under  her  quaint,  old-fashioned  bonnet — a  species  of 
poke  in  vogue  a  year  or  two  before — her  blue  eyes 
fearlessly  and  happily  returned  the  ardent  and  ad- 
miring glances  of  his  own.  Lest  the  silence  should 
prove  embarrassing  to  her,  however,  and  noticing,  at 
last,  that  she  dropped  her  eyes  before  him,  he  said, — 

"I'd  give  a  penny  for  your  thoughts,  Miss  Emily, 
if  I  thought  the  coin  would  prove  the  open  sesame 
to  your  mind." 

"  I  was  only  thinking  how  beautifully  you  row,  and 
wondering " 

"Yes,  wondering?" 

' '  How  soon  you  had  recovered  from  your  accident, 
and  how  much  better  and  stronger  you  seem  than 
when  I  had  to  help  you  up  the  hill  yesterday  morn- 
ing." 

He  laughed  at  this  clever  thrust,  rather  shame- 
facedly, it  must  be  admitted,  and  flushed  at  the  same 
time,  while  he  answered  her. 

"I  am  afraid  you  will  think  me  a  great  hypocrite," 
he  admitted,  contritely,  realizing  that  he  could  lose 
nothing  by  frankness  ;  "  certainly,  I  am  feeling  very 
delightful — I  mean,  well  and  comfortable,  now." 

"  Yet  you  are  rowing  in  the  hot  sun  !  Now,  I  do 
not  see  how  you  can  be  comfortable  at  all,  and  I  do 

92 


BROKEN  RESOLUTIONS 

not  believe,  since  you  feel  so  well  now,  that  you 
needed  any  assistance  whatever  in  getting  up  the  hill. 
You  deceived  me.  Neither  my  grandfather  nor  Cap- 
tain Barry  ever  do  that,"  she  continued,  gravely,  at 
the  same  time  looking  reprovingly  at  him.  She 
leaned  back  in  the  boat,  as  if  the  matter  was  de- 
cided. "  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  about  it  before, 
but  there  was  always  some  one  around." 

"  Miss  Emily,  let  me  explain,"  he  exclaimed,  filled 
with  shame,  surprised,  yet  pleased,  to  think  she  should 
take  so  trifling  a  matter  so  seriously.  "  You  see,"  he 
added,  half  in  jest  and  half  in  earnest,  "  after  saving 
my  life  so  gallantly  the  other  night,  I  had  rather  a 
feeling  of — er — dependence  upon  you,  you  know,  the 
next  morning,  and  it  seemed  natural  and  appropriate 
to  ask  you  to  help  me  up  the  hill.  I  could  have  gone 
up  myself  I — I  suppose " 

"I  am  glad  you  are  honest  now,  at  any  rate.  I 
must  say  you  seemed  to  acquire  the  feeling  very 
lightly." 

"  Of  honesty?     Thank  you  !" 

"I  mean  of  dependence." 

"I  didn't.  I  never  had  it  before.  You  see,  it's 
dangerous  to  save  a  life.  The  one  who  is  saved 
always  feels  that  he  belongs  to  the  one  who  saves. 
Now,  I " 

"  How  do  you  know  so  much  about  it?"  she  broke 
in,  with  instinctive  promptness.  She  would  like  to 
have  him  complete  his  sentence,  and  yet,  like  all 
women,  she  tried  to  put  it  off;  hence  her  interruption. 
"  Did  you  ever  save  any  one's  life  ?" 

93 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

"Yes,  once,"  he  replied,  rather  reluctantly,  inwardly 
perturbed  at  the  turn  the  conversation  was  taking. 

"Oh,  how  was  it?"  she  questioned,  interestedly, 
dropping  her  tone  of  banter  instantly.  "  Was  it  a 
fellow-officer?" 

"No." 

"A  sailor,  then?"  anxiously. 

"No;  a  young  lady,"  desperately. 

"  Oh,  a  young  lady  !"  she  exclaimed  in  dismay, 
with  a  note  of  disappointment  in  her  voice  that  she 
endeavored  in  vain  to  suppress,  and  which  he  was 
very  glad  indeed  to  recognize. 

"  Yes  ;  one  summer  at  Cape  May.  She  got  beyond 
her  depth  in  the  surf,  and  I  swam  out  and  brought 
her  ashore  without  any  great  difficulty.  Not  a  very 
romantic  story,  is  it?  Not  half  as  much  as  —  I 
mean,  not  at  all " 

"Oh,  I  think  it  very  romantic  indeed,"  answered 
this  child  of  nature,  whose  notions  of  romance  and 
love  and  other  things  were  drawn  from  the  antique 
novels  of  her  grandfather's  library  ;  "  if  I  had  saved 
any  one's  life  I  should " 

She  stopped  and  blushed  furiously  as  the  natural 
answer  to  her  impetuous  remark  sprang  into  her  mind. 

"  I  will  finish  for  you,"  interrupted  Revere,  eagerly, 
his  resolution  of  reticence  recorded  in  his  determina- 
tion of  the  previous  night  growing  decidedly  faint  in 

the  face  of  the  fascination  she   exercised  over  him. 
•«  j » 

He  would  have  gone  on,  but  something  in  her 
glance  stopped  him.  With  the  quickness  of  love  and 

94 


BROKEN  RESOLUTIONS 

intense  sympathy  he  divined  that  the  hour  was  not 
yet.  There  was  an  unspoken  appeal  in  her  eyes,  in 
her  burning  cheek,  her  trembling  hand,  her  heaving 
breast,  which  he  could  not  disregard.  He  had  been 
on  the  brink  of  an  avowal.  Thank  heaven,  he  had 
stopped  in  time  !  For  her  sake  and  for  his  own  he 
would  be  on  his  guard.  He  would  not  transgress 
again.  He  vowed  it  in  his  soul. 

"I  am  deeply  grateful,"  he  went  on,  after  a  pause 
which  somehow,  in  spite  of  him,  expressed  all  he 
wished  her  to  understand,  "  both  to  you  and  the 
sailor,  and  I  hope  to  evidence  my  devotion  and  grati- 
tude in  some  tangible  way.  By  the  way,  what  a 
strange  character  he  seems  !  He  appears  to  have 
taken  a  dislike  to  me.  He  said  this  morning  he 
wished  he  had  not  saved  me." 

"How  dared  he  speak  so?"  cried  the  girl,  sitting 
up  in  the  boat,  her  face  flushed  this  time  with  indig- 
nation. "Not  save  your  life?  Why — but  there," 
she  went  on,  swiftly  recovering  herself,  "he  is  a 
strange  creature,  as  you  say,  and  moody  at  times. 
He  lives  alone  on  the  ship,  and  sees  no  one  but 
grandfather  and  me.  He  is  devoted  to  me.  He  would 
do  anything  for  me." 

"Those  queer  things  in  your  room, — the  harpoon, 
the  shark's  tooth,  the  model  of  the  ship  ?" 

"  He  put  them  there.  They  are  odd  things  for  a 
girl's  room,  are  they  not  ?  but  when  you  realize  that 
they  express  the  affection  of  an  honest,  faithful  heart, 
they  become  quite  fitting  for  any  woman.  Yes,  I 
am  fond  of  him,  and  I  love  those  things  for  his 

95 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

sake.      He  is  devoted  to  the  admiral  and  to  the  ship, 
too." 

Mr.  Richard  Revere  was  too  profoundly  conscious 
of  the  vast  difference  between  Emily  Sanford  and 
any  common  sailor  to  feel  the  slightest  jealousy  at 
her  ungrudging  praise  ;  indeed,  he  liked  it. 

"So  I  discovered,"  he  assented,  appreciatively. 
"  Miss  Emily,  you  go  down  to  that  ship  sometimes  ; 
often,  I  suppose.  Please  do  not  go  any  more." 

"Why  not?"  curiously. 

"  It  is  very  insecure.  I  do  not  see  how  it  can  last 
much  longer.  Some  day  it  will  collapse  into  shape- 
less ruin  ;  soon,  I  think.  And  if  you  were  there — " 
He  hesitated  and  looked  at  her.  "  Please  do  not 
go,"  he  continued. 

"  But  it  will  break  Captain  Barry's  heart  to  have 
me  refuse.  I've  always  gone." 

She  spoke  doubtfully,  as  if  seeking  a  further  reason. 

"Better  break  his  heart  than  throw  away  your 
life.  Believe  me,  I  have  made  a  thorough  inspec- 
tion of  the  ship.  It's  unsafe.  It's  almost  gone.  I 
marvel  that  it  stands  now." 

"  Poor  old  ship  !" 

"  Yes,  'tis  sad  indeed.     But  you  won't  go,  will  you  ?" 

"  Not — not — if  you  do  not  wish  me, — I  mean,  not 
if  it  is  unsafe,"  she  answered,  softly,  looking  down. 

He  had  shot  the  boat  in  toward  the  shore  of  a  little 
island  in  the  harbor,  and  there,  under  the  deep  shadow 
of  some  overhanging  trees,  he  stopped  rowing,  as  he 
said,  to  rest  a  moment,  just  keeping  the  boat  under 
control  with  the  oars. 

96 


BROKEN  RESOLUTIONS 

"  Poor  old  ship  !"  continued  the  girl,  mournfully, 
as  she  dabbled  her  sunburnt  but  shapely  hand  in  the 
water;  "when  it  goes,  grandfather  will  go,  Captain 
Barry  will  go,  and  I  will  be  left — alone." 

"  No,  no  !"  he  exclaimed,  softly,  all  his  resolution 
gone  in  the  face  of  the  powerful  yet  innocent  appeal. 
"Not  alone,  for  I " 

"That  girl?"  she  interrupted,  meaningly. 

"What  girl?"  impatiently. 

"  The  one  you  saved.    Is  she  beautiful  ?" 

"  Some  people  consider  her  so,  I  believe." 

"What  is  she  like  ?"  breathlessly. 

"  She  is  tall  and  rather  large.  She  has  brown  hair 
and  brown  eyes.  She  has  been  beautifully  educated, 
and  she  is  exquisitely  bred." 

"She  sings,  too,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes  ;  her  voice  has  been  very  highly  cultivated." 

"And  you  have  sung  to  her,  with  her?"  sadly. 

"  Sometimes." 

"That  song  we  sang  together  last  night?" 

"  Oh,  no  ;  she  only  sings  classical  music.  I  think 
she  would  disdain  a  simple  ballad." 

"  Oh  !"  said  the  girl,  with  much  disappointment, 
and  humiliation  as  well ;  "  I  suppose  they  are  simple, 
after  all." 

"I  prefer  them  myself,"  answered  Revere,  ten- 
derly. 

The  conversation  was  getting  dangerous.  She 
changed  the  subject  at  once. 

"Have  you  made  many  cruises  ?" 

"  Only  one.     As  soon  as  I  was  graduated  I  was 
7  97 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

ordered  to  the  Hartford ;  but  I  was  abroad  when  a 
lad,  before  I  entered  the  Naval  Academy." 

"  I  suppose  you  have  seen  a  great  many  beautiful 
and  high-bred  ladies  in  Boston  and  elsewhere  ?" 

"Yes,  a  great  many,  indeed." 

"Are  they  all  very  beautiful  and  charming?" 

"Some  of  them  are,"  he  answered. 

"  I  suppose,"  she  said  at  last,  desperately,  "  there 
are  none  of  them  like  me  ?" 

"No  !"  he  replied,  decisively. 

" Is  it  so ?"  sadly.      "  Am  I  so  different?" 

"  As  different  as  day  from  night,"  joyously. 

"  Oh,"  softly,  and  with  deep  disappointment ;  "  I 
have  never  been  anywhere  but  just  here.  I  have 
never  seen  any  great  ladies  at  all.  I  have  never  met 
any  gentlemen  except  grandfather  and — you.  I  do 
not  know  anything  about  the  world  beyond  the  hori- 
zon ;  but  I  have  tried  to  read  and  learn,  and  I  have 
dreamed  about  it,  too.  But  I  suppose  one  has  to  go 
and  see  before  one  can  know  of  the  people  you  speak 
of.  You  must  think  me  so " 

"  Emily,"  he  said,  his  voice  quivering  with  his  feel- 
ings, "  I  have  known  you  but  two  days,  but  I  think 
you  are  the  loveliest,  the  sweetest " 

She  waved  her  hand  in  deprecation  ;  but  he  would 
not  be  stopped  this  time.  Truly  he  had  forgotten  all 
but  his  love  for  her. 

"  You  do  not  know  what  the  others  know  ;  I  love 
you  for  that,"  he  went  on,  impetuously.  "You  do  not 
do  what  others  do  ;  I  love  you  for  that.  You  are  not 
what  the  others  are  ;  I  love  you  for  that  There,  it  is 

98 


BROKEN  RESOLUTIONS 

,out  now.  I  did  not  mean  to  tell  you  just  yet  I  do 
not  suppose  that  you  can  love  me  ;  at  least,  not  yet. 
There  is  nothing  in  me  that  would  win  a  woman's 
heart  in  two  days,  I  know.  But  there  is  everything 
in  you  to  win  a  man's  heart  in  one  glance  ;  and  I  swear 
mine  went  out  to  you  when  I  saw  you  holding  the 
boat  on  the  edge  of  the  whirlpool,  with  your  golden 
hair  blown  back  in  the  wind  and  your  blue  eyes 
shining  with  encouragement  and  invitation." 

It  was  heavenly  to  hear  him,  she  thought.  This 
was  better  than  her  dreams.  She  sat  silent  and  still, 
her  eyes  persistently  averted,  quaffing  deep  draughts 
from  a  cup  eternal,  besides  which  even  the  nepenthe 
of  the  gods  is  evanescent 

"  I  won't  ask  you  to  answer  me  now ;  but  will 
you  not  give  me  a  trial  ?"  he  continued,  hurriedly, 
fearing  lest  her  silence  might  presage  a  refusal.  "  Let 
me  have  a  chance  to  win  your  love,  if  I  can.  Let 
me  see  if  I  cannot  make  you  love  me.  Won't  you 
let  me  try?  Emily,  you  are  not  even  looking  at 
me." 

He  was  quite  beside  himself  with  anxiety  now. 
She  had  been  still  so  long.  What  could  he  do  or 
say  further?  A  small  boat  has  its  disadvantages  for 
the  ending  of  a  love  affair.  In  all  his  impatience  he 
had  to  sit  just  where  he  was.  He  could  come  no 
nearer  to  her. 

"  If  I  could,  Emily  dear,"  he  said,  humbly  beseech- 
ing her,  "  I  would  get  down  on  my  knees  before  you  ; 
but  I  can't  in  this  little  boat.  Won't  you  please  look 
at  me  ?  But  perhaps  you  can  more  easily  give  me 

99 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

some  hope  if  you  don't  look  at  me.     Don't  look. 
I'm  not  a  very  attractive  fellow,  I  know." 

This  was  an  adroit  move  on  his  part,  and  his  self- 
depreciation  won  a  reply  instantly. 

"  I — I  like  you  very  much,"  she  said  at  last  and 
very  frankly.  "  I  think  I  liked  you  when  Captain 
Barry  carried  you  up  the  hill, — even  before,  when  you 
stood  on  the  wreck.  I  wanted  to  help  him.  I  don't 
know  whether  I — love  you,  but — what  you  have  said 
has  not  been  displeasing  to  me — on  the  contrary" 

"And  you  will  try,  you  will  wait?     May  I ?" 

He  waited  breathless  for  her  answer. 

"Yes,"  she  said  at  last,  "you  may." 

"Oh,  Emily !"  he  cried  ;  "you  have  made  me  the 
happiest  fellow  on  earth  ;  and  if  I  succeed  in  winning 
your  love " 

"  Do  not  despair,"  she  whispered,  softly,  flashing  a 
glance  at  him,  her  lips  smiling,  her  eyes  ashine  with 
tears.  "  I  think  it  has  come,"  laying  her  hand  on  her 
heart  with  a  sweet,  unconscious  movement.  "  I  have 
dreamed  ever  since  I  was  a  woman  that  the  prince 
would  come  some  day  from  over  the  sea." 

She  stopped  again.  He  stared  at  her  in  adoring 
silence.  Her  lips  trembled,  while  her  heart  almost 
ceased  to  beat  with  the  joy  of  it  all.  And  her  eyes 
were  looking  far  away — over  the  sea,  perhaps. 

"We  must  not  stay  here  longer,"  she  said  at  last ; 
"  they  will  wonder  what  has  become  of  us." 

"You  are  the  captain,"  he  answered,  laughing 
buoyantly  in  his  happiness  ;  "  give  your  crew  the 
order." 

100 


BROKEN  RESOLUTIONS 

"Get  under  way,  then,"  she  replied,  meeting  his 
mood. 

The  little  love  scene  had  put  strength  into  his  arms. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  power  of  his  passion,  failing 
other  vent,  had  worked  itself  into  the  oar-blades, 
for  the  boat  skimmed  over  the  water  like  a  bird,  and  in 
a  few  moments  he  unshipped  his  oars  at  the  boat- 
landing.  Swinging  the  skiff  about  so  that  the  stern 
would  be  nearest  the  landing-place  for  her  conven- 
ience, he  stepped  ashore,  fastened  the  painter,  and 
gave  her  his  hand.  Her  own  small  palm  met  his 
great  one  frankly,  and  the  two  hands  clung  together 
in  a  clasp, — on  his  part  of  joy  unspeakable,  on  hers 
of  happy  foreshadowings  of  the  future. 

Neither  said  anything  as  he  helped  her  gravely  up 
the  steps.  To  kiss  her  then,  even  had  they  been 
alone,  would  have  seemed  to  him  sacrilege  ;  there 
was  something  so  holy,  so  innocent,  so  pure  about  the 
young  girl,  he  thought,  that  he  would  like  to  throw 
himself  upon  his  knees  before  her  and  kiss  the  steps 
her  feet  had  trodden,  so  rapturous  was  his  mood.  Yet 
again,  when  he  broke  the  silence,  his  words  were 
commonplace.  The  noblest  word  would  be  ordinary 
when  matched  against  his  feelings  then  ! 

"What  a  sleepy,  dull,  dead  little  town  this  seems !" 
he  remarked,  looking  curiously  about  him  ;  "  if  it 
were  a  little  handsomer,  and  overgrown  with  flowers 
and  vines,  it  might  be  the  town  of  the  Sleeping  Beauty  ; 
but  the  Beauty " 

"  Is  wide  awake,"  she  interrupted,  a  charming  color 
irradiating  her  cheek,  which  made  him  sorry  he  had 

101 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

been  so  timid.  "And  awake  without  the  prince's 
kiss,  too  !"  she  added,  smiling  archly,  in  that  she  was 
a  very  woman. 

Perhaps,  he  thought,  ruefully,  she  might  not  have 
resented  that  kiss,  after  all. 

Well,  the  next  time  would  see  ! 


102 


CHAPTER   XIII 


LOVE  HOLDS  THE  YOKE-LINES 


Ai    anticipated,    Revere    found   his    man 
with    a    well-filled    portmanteau    and 
several   letters    awaiting   him   at    the 
little  old-fashioned  country  inn  of  the 
village.     The  morning  was  far  spent 
when  Emily  finished  her  simple  purchases,  and  the 
two  lovers  lunched  together  in  the  quaint  old  parlor 
of  the  inn.     The  girl,  in  her  innocence  of  the  customs 
of  the  world,  was  quite  oblivious  to  the  conventional 
necessity  for  a  chaperon  ;  so,  without  the  embarrass- 
ment  of  a    third    party,    they   greatly   enjoyed    the 
wholesome  and  substantial  meal  provided  for  them 
by  the  skilful  hands  of  the  innkeeper's  wife    with 
whom  Emily  was  a  great  favorite.     They  lingered  a 
long  time  at  the  table  in  the  cool  old-fashioned  room, 
and  it  was  somewhat  late  in  the  afternoon  when  they 
started  back  to  the  Point,  to  which  Revere  had  pre- 
viously directed  his  man  to  repair  with  his  baggage, 
by  the  land  road. 

The  constraint  which  had  been  put  upon  both  of 
them  by  the  necessities  of  the  business  which  had 
called  them  to  the  village,  and  the  presence  of  other 
people  wherever  they  went,  for  the  officious  but  well- 

103 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

meaning  landlady  had  frequently  interrupted  the 
privacy  of  the  parlor  even,  had  been  the  strongest 
force  in  developing  the  growing  passions  in  their 
hearts. 

Emily  was  a  simple-minded  maiden,  with  all  the 
attributes  of  a  very  old-fashioned  age.  She  had  no 
mission  to  reform  this  world,  which  indeed  she  had 
found  most  sweet  and  fair,  and  sweeter  and  fairer 
that  day  than  ever  before  ;  she  stood  for  no  so-called 
modern  idea ;  she  had  no  deep  plan  or  mighty  pur- 
pose for  the  amelioration  of  mankind, — or  woman- 
kind either  ;  she  did  not  aim  at  the  achievement  of 
great  results,  the  doing  of  mighty  deeds.  The  com- 
plexities of  her  character  did  not  manifest  themselves 
in  these  ways. 

Woman's  sphere  for  her,  if  she  thought  of  it  spe- 
cifically at  all,  was  a  very  simple  and  a  very  old  thing. 
To  love  and  to  be  loved,  to  be  first  a  faithful,  happy 
wife,  and  second,  please  God,  a  wise,  devoted  mother, 
was  the  sum  of  her  ambition. 

There  were  no  young  men  with  whom  she  came  in 
contact  who  could  measure  up  to  the  standard  of  her 
social  and  intellectual  requirements,  and  the  chances 
that  any  would  present  themselves  had  been  exceed- 
ingly small.  So  she  had  represented  in  her  life  a  hope 
deferred,  but  without  being  heart-sick  with  the  de- 
lay ;  she  was  of  so  sane,  so  healthy,  and  so  happy  a 
disposition  that  she  had  been  saved  all  that.  With  the 
optimism  of  youth  she  had  confidently  expected  that 
some  day  the  prince  would  arrive,  and  when  he  came, 
together  hand  in  hand  they  would  go  "  over  the  hills 

104 


LOVE  HOLDS  THE  YOKE-LINES 

and  far  away,  to  that  new  land  which  is  the  old." 
And  the  portals  of  that  undiscovered  country  were 
now  opening  before  her  delighted  vision. 

Barely  out  of  her  teens,  she  had  not  grown  im- 
patient in  her  dreaming, — life  had  been  too  sweet 
and  pleasant  for  that, — but  the  thoughtful  and  some- 
what lonely  years  had  made  her  ready,  and  it  was 
no  wonder  that  at  the  touch  she  yielded.  When 
Revere  came  to  her  out  of  the  deep,  cast  up  at  her 
feet  by  the  waves  of  the  sea,  as  it  were,  he  fitted  into 
anticipation  already  old.  He  represented  the  reali- 
zation of  her  maidenly  desires  and  her  womanly 
hopes.  That  she  should  fall  in  love  with  him  was 
entirely  natural  and  quite  to  be  expected,  especially 
since  he  was  blessed  with  a  personality  at  once 
strong,  lovable,  and  charming. 

The  reserve  and  the  calmness  of  Revere' s  long 
line  of  Boston  ancestry  had  been  tempered,  modified, 
brightened,  by  his  sailor  life  and  by  his  intimate  con- 
tact with  great  and  heroic  men  in  the  war  which  was 
just  over.  Frank,  genial,  generous,  and  not  without 
a  certain  high-bred  distinction  in  his  manner,  and 
blessed  with  a  sufficiency  of  manly  good  looks,  he 
might  well  have  hoped  to  win  any  woman's  heart 

The  day  had  been  a  happy  one  to  Emily,  then  ;  hap- 
pier for  her  than  for  Revere,  in  fact,  for  that  young 
man's  conscience  troubled  him  deeply,  while  there  was 
no  cloud  on  her  sweet  pleasure.  If  he  had  not  been 
engaged  to  Josephine  he  would  have  revelled  in  his 
love  for  Emily  ;  but  he  was  not  free.  He  was  now 
bound  to  two  women  at  the  same  time,  and  not  in 

105 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

strictly  honorable  relationship  to  either.  The  false 
position  was  almost  unbearable  to  a  man  of  his  fine 
sensitiveness,  and  that  he  had  made  it  himself  did 
not  make  it  less  easy  to  endure.  He  firmly  resolved 
to  extricate  himself  from  his  dilemma  by  informing 
Josephine  at  the  first  opportunity. 

No  other  course  was  left  to  him.  Since  he  had  seen 
and  known  Emily  he  felt  that  it  would  be  impossible 
for  him  to  keep  his  previous  engagement,  and  yet  he 
realized  that  it  would  have  been  more  honorable  for 
him  to  have  controlled  himself  as  he  had  determined, 
better  to  have  been  less  precipitate  and  to  have  waited 
until  he  had  gained  his  release  before  he  offered  him- 
self to  Emily. 

Carried  away  by  his  feelings,  he  had  proposed  to 
her  in  the  boat,  and  he  regretted,  not  the  fact, — 
never  that, — but  that  he  had  been  so  little  master  of 
himself,  that  he  could  not  have  delayed  his  wooing 
for  a  few  days,  until,  being  made  free,  he  could  defi- 
nitely and  properly  and  honorably  ask  her  for  her 
hand.  He  felt,  for  instance,  that  he  could  not  speak  to 
the  old  admiral  upon  the  subject  until  he  had  secured 
his  release.  It  would  be  impossible  for  him  to  ap- 
proach that  soul  of  ancient  honor  other  than  free. 

Yet  when  he  looked  at  the  girl ;  when  the  clear, 
sweet  notes  of  her  fresh  young  voice  thrilled  in  his 
ear  ;  when  walking  by  her  side  her  dress  brushed 
against  him  ;  when  by  chance  or  design  he  touched 
her,  or  her  hand  met  his ;  when  she  looked  at  him 
out  of  those  frank,  honest  blue  eyes ;  when  he  saw 
the  color  come  and  go  in  her  cheek,  marked  the 

1 06 


LOVE  HOLDS  THE  YOKE-LINES 

beating  of  her  heart,  caught  the  unconscious  affec- 
tion with  which  her  eye  dwelt  upon  him  at  times, 
when  she  thought  herself  unobserved,  he  vowed  that 
he  stood  excused  in  his  own  heart  for  his  precip- 
itancy. 

Every  moment  when  she  did  not  feel  and  know 
that  he  loved  her  he,  in  his  turn,  counted  a  moment 
lost.  He  could  hardly  wait  to  get  back  to  the  house, 
where  he  determined  to  write  to  Josephine  instantly 
and  apprise  her  of  the  situation.  He  felt,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course,  that  she  was  too  proud  a  woman  to 
hold  him  to  an  unwilling  engagement  for  a  single 
moment  Whether  she  loved  him  or  not  he  could 
not  say.  He  thought  not,  he  hoped  not.  Their  en- 
gagement had  been  a  matter-of-fact  affair,  and  the 
courtship  had  been  rather  a  cool  one.  He  was  per- 
fectly certain  that  she  liked  him,  but  that  was  very 
different.  He  had  never  once  seen  her  breath  come 
quicker  when  he  approached  her,  the  color  flush  or 
fade  in  her  cheek  as  he  spoke  to  her.  But  he  could 
not  be  sure.  The  veneer  of  birth,  custom,  and  envi- 
ronment had  not  been  worn  off  of  her  as  it  had  been 
stripped  from  him,  and  her  outward  action  beneath 
all  this  coolness  afforded  no  infallible  guide  to  her 
feelings. 

If  she  loved  him,  that  would  indeed  complicate  the 
matter,  but  there  could  be — there  must  be — no  other 
issue  than  that  the  engagement  should  be  broken.  He 
would  be  very  sorry  for  her  in  that  case,  but  there 
would  be  nothing  else  to  be  done.  He  could  not  help 
it  that  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  some  one  else,  and  the 

107 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

only  honorable  thing  to  do  now  was  to  tell  the 
truth  at  once  and  break  away.  A  man's  reasoning, 
certainly ! 

As  they  approached  the  wharf  where  the  boat  was 
tied  Emily  noticed  that  Revere  looked  pale  and  tired. 
The  violent  current  of  his  thoughts,  the  acuteness  of 
the  mental  struggle  in  which  he  found  himself  in- 
volved, together  with  his  low  physical  condition,  had 
worn  him  out.  Therefore  the  girl  insisted  upon  row- 
ing back  herself. 

Even  in  the  dependence  of  the  first  love  of  a  young 
maiden  there  is  a  feeling  of  protection,  a  foreshad- 
owing of  the  instinct  maternal,  which  is  the  founda- 
tion of  most  of  the  good  things  in  this  life,  even  of 
the  habit  and  practice  of  religion.  Emily,  while  she 
gloried  in  his  virile  manhood  and  dwelt  happily  upon 
his  strength  and  vigor,  already  watched  over  Revere 
as  she  might  have  looked  after  a  child.  And  she 
delighted  in  the  opportunity  of  doing  her  lover  fur- 
ther service.  So  Omphale  might  have  considered 
Hercules. 

"  I  want  to  show  you  how  beautifully  I  can  pull 
an  oar,"  she  artfully  said,  in  answer  to  his  expostula- 
tion, herself  only  half  comprehending  the  deep  springs 
of  action  that  lay  in  her  being  ;  "  and  you  look  so 
tired.  You  know  you  are  not  yet  strong.  I  ought 
not  to  have  allowed  you  to  come." 

The  sense  of  ownership  implied  in  her  last  words 
was  delightful  to  both  of  them. 

"I  am  tired,"  he  said,  honestly,  "but  not  too  tired 
to  row  you  back;  and  I  wouldn't  have  missed  this 

108 


LOVE  HOLDS  THE  YOKE-LINES 

little  voyage  for  all  the  cruises  of  a  lifetime.     Please 
get  into  the  boat  and  take  the  yoke-lines." 

"  No,"  said  Emily ;  "  you  said  I  was  captain,  and  I 
mean  to  exercise  the  privileges  of  my  position.  Take 
the  yoke-lines  yourself.  I  insist  upon  it." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  assented  the  young  sailor,  smiling 
at  her ;  "  I  have  been  under  orders,  it  seems  to  me, 
ever  since  I  was  born.  First  mother,  then  Josephine, 
and  now  you." 

He  sat  down  in  the  stern-sheets  with  affected  resig- 
nation and  gathered  up  the  yoke-lines. 

Emily's  face  had  changed  somewhat  at  this  last  re- 
mark, but  she  said  nothing  as  she  cast  off  the  painter, 
stepped  to  the  thwart,  shoved  off  the  boat,  broke  out 
the  oars,  and  pulled  away.  She  rowed  a  pretty  stroke, 
quite  as  deft  as  Revere's  had  been,  though  lacking 
somewhat  in  power.  As  they  cleared  the  wharf  and 
headed  out  into  the  bay  toward  the  Point  she  looked 
up  at  him. 

"You  have  always  been  under  orders,  you  say?" 

"Yes." 

"First  your  mother?" 

"Yes." 

"And  then, — who  did  you  say  ?"  with  poorly  simu- 
lated indifference. 

"Josephine, — Miss  Josephine  Remington,"  care- 
lessly. 

"And  who  is  she?" 

"  Oh,  she's  an  old  friend  of  the  family,  a  connection 
in  a  far-off  way.  She  has  lived  with  us  pretty  much 
since  she  was  a  child." 

109 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

"Are  you  fond  of  her?"  coldly. 

"Yes,"  with  mischievous  promptness. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  looking  away. 

"But  not  so  fond  of  her  as  I  am  of  you,  Emily," 
tenderly. 

"Is  that  really  true?"  eagerly. 

"  Upon  my  word  and  honor,"  with  convincing 
assurance. 

"And  you  don't  love  her?" 

"  Not  a  bit.  I  love  only  one  person  in  the  world, 
and  that  is  you,"  passionately. 

"Was  she  the  girl  you  saved?"  relieved,  but  still 
somewhat  anxious. 

"She  was." 

"  Does  she  love  you,  I  wonder?" 

"I  think  not.  She  never  gave  me  half  as  much 
evidence  of  caring  for  me  as " 

He  stopped  suddenly. 

"As  what?"  she  asked  in  swift  alarm. 

"As — forgive  me,  Emily — as  you  have  this  after- 
noon." 

She  stopped  pulling  instantly,  her  oar-blades  lifted 
from  the  water  in  mid-stroke,  drops  trickling  from 
them. 

"  Have  I  been  bold  and  forward?"  she  cried  in  dis- 
may. "  Oh,  what  must  you  think  of  me  ?" 

"You  have  been  perfect,"  he  answered,  fervently; 
" simply  perfect.  I  wouldn't  have  you  changed  an 
iota  in  any  way.  Don't  let's  talk  about  other  people 
now.  I'd  rather  talk  about  you.  Tell  me  something 
about  yourself,  about  the  life  you  have  lived,  what  you 

no 


LOVE  HOLDS  THE  YOKE-LINES 

have  done,  what  you  have  thought,   what  you  have 
dreamed  ;  tell  me  everything.      I  want  to  know  it  all." 

"Yes,  but  are  you  sure  you  do  not  love  her  ?" 

"I  never  was  so  certain  of  anything  in  my  life, 
except  it  be  that  I  love  you." 

There  was  conviction  in  his  voice  which  comforted 
her  soul.  Still,  she  sought  enlightenment  upon  an- 
other point 

"Are  you  sure  she  doesn't  love  you  ?" 

"I  think  it  is  very  improbable." 

"Well,  I  don't,  then!"  she  exclaimed,  vigorously 
resuming  her  stroke.  "You  saved  her  life,  and  I 
don't  see  how  she  could  help  it,"  she  continued. 

"  I  didn't  save  your  life,  though,  Emily." 

The  boat  was  in  the  shadow  of  the  island  trees, 
where  it  had  been  when  he  had  first  spoken  of  love 
to  her  that  morning.  She  let  it  drift ;  again  the 
water  made  sweet  music  lipping  along  the  side  ;  they 
would  associate  it  forever  with  these  ineffable  moments. 

"No,"  she  murmured,  her  honesty  and  innocence 
giving  her  courage  to  say  that  which  another  might 
have  sought  to  conceal,  "you  didn't,  but — I  don't 
believe — I  can — help  it,  either." 

It  was  out  now.  His  love  had  shown  her  her  own. 
She  was  another  woman  ;  never  again  would  she  look 
at  life  with  the  eyes  of  the  girl  of  yesterday.  Ferdi- 
nand had  come  to  Miranda ;  and  Ariel  had  opened 
the  eyes  of  the  maiden  to  new  things  on  the  old 
island  more  wonderful  than  those  revealed  by  Pros- 
pero's  magic  wand.  And  to  Revere,  too,  the  com- 
plexion of  the  world  suddenly  and  swiftly  altered. 

in 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

"Oh,  Emily,  you  don't  mean  it  !"  he  cried  in  ex- 
ultant surprise.  He  had  not  hoped  so  soon  for  this 
revelation  of  the  woman's  heart. 

Her  face  was  averted  now,  but  she^spoke  distinctly 
enough  for  him  to  hear  every  whispered  word. 

"Yes,  I  think — I  believe — I  do.  I  have  thought 
about  it  a  great  deal  since  you  spoke." — Three 
hours  ago  !  "And  I  believe  I " 

She  could  not  quite  say  it — yet. 

"  Emily,  dearest,  I  am  so  happy  it  seems  to  me  I 
can  hardly  breathe.  I  do  not  dare  to  look  at  you. 
I  love  you  so !  Come,  let  us  hurry  back  to  the 
shore." 

"  Mr.  Revere — "  she  began,  starting  the  boat 
again. 

"  That  will  not  do  at  all,"  he  interrupted,  promptly 
and  decisively;  "you  must  call  me  something  else 
— now  that  you — oh,  do  you?" 

"Richard,"  she  said,  bravely. 

"Those  who  love  me  call  me  '  Dick,'  "  pleadingly. 

"  I  couldn't  say  that — not  just  yet — Dick !" 

He  laughed  in  sheer  pleasure. 

"  I  never  knew  what  a  pretty  name  I  had  before, 
Emily." 

"I  think  it  is  lovely,"  she  said,  naively. 

"  Thank  you.    Do  you  like  my  other  name,  too  ?" 

"  Oh,  ever  so  much." 

"  I  am  so  glad,  because  it  will  be  yours.  Mrs. 
Richard  Revere." 

"  Hush,  how  can  you  !"  she  cried,  blushing  furiously. 
"I  want  to  ask  one  thing  of  you.  Do  not  say 

112 


LOVE  HOLDS  THE  YOKE-LINES 

anything  about — to-day.  That  is,  to  grandfather  or 
Captain  Barry, — not  just  yet." 

"I'm  not  likely  to  say  anything  about  it  to  Captain 
Barry  now  or  at  any  other  time,"  he  laughed  ;  "and 
as  for  the  admiral,  it  will  do  no  harm  for  us  to  wait  a 
day  or  two,  I  fancy, — that  is,  if  you  wish  it,  princess." 

Her  desire  suited  his  plans  admirably,  for  the  delay 
would  give  him  time  to  write  and  get  his  freedom. 

"  I  want  to  enjoy  it  first  alone,"  she  went  on, 
dreamily.  "  I  want  to  have  the  knowledge  that  you 
love  me  all  to  myself,  just  for  a  day.  It's  so  sacred, 
and  so  solemn  a  thing  to  me,  Richard ;  so  beautiful, 
that  I  want  to  keep  it  just  here  in  my  heart  alone,  for 
a  little  while." 

She  laid  her  hand  upon  her  heart  with  the  sweetest 
gesture  as  she  spoke. 

"  It  shall  be  so,"  he  answered,  frankly,  adoring  her. 
"  Whatever  you  wish  shall  always  be,  if  I  can  bring 
it  about." 

Oh,  the  rash  promises  of  lovers ! 

"  And  you  will  let  me  have  my  happiness  to  myself, 
then?  You  will  not  think  me  foolish?" 

"  Not  all  to  yourself,  for,  though  I  do  not  speak,  I 
must  still  share  it,  and  I  think  you  are  perfect  in  every- 
thing." 

"  We  are  at  the  wharf,"  she  murmured.  "  I  must 
go  up  to  the  house  alone.  Do  not  come  with  me.  I 
want  to  think  it  over." 

"  But,  dearest,  I  shall  see  you  to-night  ?"  he  pleaded. 

"Yes  ;  but  please  do  not  persuade  me  now." 

Respecting  her  desire,  he  doffed  his  cap  and  stood 
8  113 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

aside  for  her  to  pass,  bowing  low  before  her  with  all 
the  chivalry  .of  his  race,  all  the  ardor  of  his  youth,  all 
the  devotion  of  his  manhood  in  his  look  and  attitude. 

The  sweetness  of  the  present  reality  so  far  tran- 
scended her  sometime  imagination  of  it  that  the  girl, 
on  leaving  him,  walked  away  as  if  borne  by  seraph's 
wings  through  the  air  of  heaven.  Yet  there  was  a 
note  athwart  her  joy, — not  exactly  one  of  sadness  or 
of  heaviness,  but  a  feeling,  as  it  were,  of  maidenly  awe 
before  the  bright  vistas  of  happiness  which  had  opened 
before  her  eyes,  in  her  lover's  presence,  in  his  love. 
Unconsciously  she  put  her  hand  to  her  face,  as  if  the 
sight  dazzled  her. 

A  little  distance  away  Revere,  having  fastened  the 
boat,  followed  her  up  the  hill.  She  did  not  look  back, 
but  she  could  hear  his  feet  upon  the  steps.  He  was 
there,  then.  He  was  looking  at  her  as  he  had  looked 
at  her  in  the  boat.  He  loved  her.  What  had  she 
done  to  merit  this  ? 

She  stopped  on  the  porch  by  the  chair  where  her 
grandfather  sat  gazing  at  the  ship  and  dreaming  as 
usual.  She  bent  low  and  kissed  him  as  she  had  never 
kissed  him  before.  He  awoke  from  his  reverie  with  a 
start,  half  comprehending,  and  gazed  from  the  girl 
entering  the  door  to  Revere  coming  up  the  walk. 

"You  have  been  a  long  time,  lad,"  he  said,  as  the 
latter  stopped  before  him. 

"  Yes,  sir.  We  took  luncheon  together  at  the  old 
inn  and  rowed  back  slowly.  Your  granddaughter 
— I  shall  have  something  to  say  to  you  in  a  day  or 
two,  sir." 

114 


LOVE  HOLDS  THE  YOKE-LINES 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  the  admiral,  quietly.  "  I  thought 
so.  But  don't  wait  too  many  days.  Days  are  as  mo- 
ments to  the  young ;  to  the  aged  they  are  as  years." 

That  day  Barry  had  not  left  the  ship.  With  a  long, 
old  fashioned  glass  that  was  chief  among  his  treasures, 
which  had  belonged  to  the  admiral,  he  had  followed 
the  boat  across  the  harbor.  He  had  divined — by 
what  cunning  who  can  say? — what  had  been  said  in 
the  pauses  under  the  trees.  He  had  waited  and 
watched  for  them  until  the  lovers  came  back.  He 
knew  it  all.  Twenty  times  during  the  period  of  their 
stay  upon  the  shore  he  had  gone  down  to  the  locker 
and  taken  out  the  letters. 

And  at  last  he  had  succumbed  to  the  temptation. 
The  devil  had  won  him  in  the  end.  Hidden  away  in 
his  corner  of  the  old  vessel,  he  opened  the  bundle  of 
letters  and  orders.  And  as  he  painfully  deciphered 
them,  one  by  one,  it  all  became  clear  to  him.  This 
cursed  officer  had  come  to  sell  the  ship  over  their 
heads.  He  had  stolen  Emily's  heart,  and  yet  he  was 
engaged  to  be  married  to  another  woman.  The  letters 
from  Josephine  Remington  puzzled  him  ;  but  as  he 
slowly  blundered  through  them,  with  their  casual  ref- 
erences to  an  engagement,  with  their  quiet  assumption 
that  all  was  understood  between  the  two,  Barry  be- 
came convinced  that  Revere  was  simply  amusing  him- 
self with  the  admiral's  granddaughter. 

And  was  he  to  stand  idle,  indifferent,  impotent, 
while  these  things  were  going  on  ?  Was  the  old  ship 
to  be  sold  and  broken  up  ?  His  ship  !  His  love,  too  ! 
Was  that  sweet  flower  of  innocence  to  be  rifled  of  the 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

chief  treasure  of  her  womanhood  and  he  do  nothing  ? 
Was  she  to  be  robbed  of  her  happiness,  too,  while  he 
was  there  ?  No,  never ! 

His  brain  reeled  under  the  pressure  of  his  thoughts. 
What  should  he  do  ?  What  could  he  do  ?  In  what 
way  might  he  compass  the  destruction  of  this  man  ? 
Save  the  ship  and  save  the  girl,  too  ! 

Ah !  Like  to  one  of  old  in  his  blindness,  there 
flashed  an  idea  into  his  mind,  as  he  stood  there  with 
the  crumpled  letters  in  his  clinched  hand.  At  first  it 
startled  him.  It  was  so  bold  ;  in  a  way  it  was  so  ter- 
rible. But  he  had  brooded  too  long  to  look  at  that 
idea  in  more  than  one  light.  With  the  one  thought 
of  revenge  upon  the  man  who  he  imagined  intended 
to  sell  the  ship,  and  who  would  gain  Emily  Sanford,  he 
brooded  upon  the  notion  until  it  took  entire  posses- 
sion of  him,  and  then,  although  it  involved  his  own 
destruction,  he  grimly  prepared  to  put  it  in  practice. 


116 


CHAPTER  XIV 


IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  SHIP 


^1  HE  rest  of  the  afternoon  passed  swiftly 
enough  for  Revere,  because  he  was 
busy.  He  wrote  a  long  letter  to  Jose- 
phine Remington,  telling  her  frankly 
the  whole  situation  :  how  he  had  met 
this  ,girl,  how  he  had  loved  her,  how  he  had  struggled 
against  the  feeling  that  had  sprung  .up  in  his  heart, 
honorably  intending  to  keep  his  engagement,  but 
each  moment  convinced  him  of  the  depth  and  fervor 
of  this  sudden  affection.  How  he  had  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  it  was  not  fair  to  bind  her  to  a  man 
who,  while  he  admired  and  respected  her,  while  he 
should  ever  hold  her  in  the  highest  regard,  did  not, 
and  could  not,  love  her. 

He  had  written  to  her  thus  frankly  that  she  might 
break  the  engagement  He  could  not,  he  said,  flatter 
himself  that  she  loved  him,  or  that  it  meant  much  to 
her ;  yet  if  he  grieved  her,  he  humbly  begged  her 
pardon,  and  hoped  that  some  day,  when  she  truly 
loved  some  one,  she  would  find  excuse  for  him. 

It  was  fearfully  hard  to  write  such  a  letter,  and  as 
he  read  it  over  it  seemed  almost  brutal  in  its  frank- 
ness. Yet  he  reasoned  that  it  were  better  to  write  it 

117 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

as  he  had  than  to  attempt  to  conceal  the  facts ;  still, 
it  was  with  many  misgivings  and  thoroughly  sick  at 
heart  at  the  unfortunate  plight  in  which  he  had  in- 
volved himself  that  he  sealed  it  up. 

The  other  letter  was  to  the  Secretary  of  the  Navy. 
Revere  reported  faithfully  the  condition  of  the  ship, 
estimated  carefully  what  he  thought  she  would  be 
worth  as  firewood, — for  the  materials  in  her  were  fit  for 
no  other  purpose, — and  then  frankly  offered  to  buy  her 
himself  for  twice  the  value  he  had  put  upon  her.  In  a 
private  letter,  which  he  had  enclosed  in  his  official  re- 
port, the  secretary  being  an  old  friend  of  his  family, 
he  told  why  he  wished  to  purchase  the  ship.  He  told 
him  about  the  admiral,  and  the  old  sailor,  and  ,the 
admiral's  granddaughter.  He  made  him  see  very 
clearly  that  it  would  kill  the  old  man  to  have  the  ship 
broken  up,  and,  since  he  possessed  ample  means,  he 
wished  to  have  the  privilege  of  purchasing  it  himself  and 
saying  nothing  about  it  to  the  admiral,  or  to  any  one, 
— letting  it  stand  where  it  was  as  long  as  it  would.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  it  would  fall  to  pieces  in  a  short  time 
he  was  certain,  and  the  admiral  need  never  know  any- 
thing about  the  transaction,  provided  the  secretary 
were  willing. 

If  there  was  any  doubt  as  to  the  accuracy  of  his 
valuation  of  the  ship,  he  suggested  that  another  officer 
could  be  sent  to  appraise  her,  and  he  stood  ready  to 
pay  twice  the  amount  of  the  next  appraisement  for 
the  privileges  of  ownership.  In  fact,  the  matter 
would  best  be  done  that  way.  It  was  a  nice  letter, 
and  he  felt  sure  his  request  would  be  granted. 

118 


IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  SHIP 

Revere  felt  much  better  when  he  had  completed 
these  two  letters.  He  felt  that  he  could  save  the  ship 
for  the  old  admiral,  and  that  he  could  save  his  honor 
as  well  by  his  tardy  action.  He  gave  the  letters  to 
his  man,  directing  him  to  mail  the  one  to  the  Secre- 
tary of  the  Navy,  and  get  a  horse  and  ride  back  to 
his  mother's  summer  home  at  Alexandria  Bay,  deliver 
the  other  in  person,  and  bring  the  answer  to  him  im- 
mediately. He  could  not  hear  too  quickly  from 
Josephine. 

The  admiral  retired  early  that  evening, — was  it  from 
a  consideration  of  past  experience,  thought  Revere, 
— so  the  two  lovers  were  left  alone. 

"Emily,"  said  the  young  lieutenant,  coming  over 
toward  her  as  the  door  closed  behind  the  old  veteran. 

"  No,  no,  not  here,  I  beg  of  you  !"  said  the  girl, 
rising  to  her  feet.  "Come,  let  us  go  out  into  the 
moonlight  Down  to  the  old  ship.  It  should  be  a 
part — a  witness — of  our  betrothal.  I,  too,  have  loved 
it.  The  earliest  recollections  of  my  childhood  are 
about  it  It  has  been  a  part  of  my  life  as  well.  Come, 
let  us  go." 

She  extended  her  hand  to  him  as  she  spoke.  He 
took  it  gravely,  and  the  two  stepped  out  of  the  house 
and  stood  upon  the  porch.  The  moonlight  streamed 
across  the  old  ship,  standing  lonely  and  still  upon  the 
Point  beneath  them.  The  cracks  and  crannies,  the 
gaping  seams  of  the  broken,  mouldering  sides,  the 
evidences  of  decay,  were  hidden  in  the  shadows  cast 
by  the  soft  splendor. 

They  walked  down  to  it  and  stopped  in  its  shadow. 
119 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

Black,  solid,  and  terrible  in  the  silver  light  it  loomed 
above  their  heads.  They  stood  almost  beneath  it,  and 
it  towered  into  the  skies  above  them.  A  trick  of  the 
imagination  would  have  dowered  it  with  spars  covered 
with  clouds  of  snowy  canvas,  and  launched  it  upon 
the  sea  of  dreams. 

The  girl  still  held  the  hand  of  the  young  officer. 
He  waited  for  her  pleasure,  something  telling  him  he 
should  not  wait  in  vain. 

"  I  brought  you  here,  Richard,"  she  said,  at  last,  very 
gravely,  "that  the  old  ship  might  hear  you  say," — the 
words  came  from  her  in  a  faint  whisper, — "  that  the 
ship  might  hear  you  say — you — loved  me.  Here 
I  have  stood  often,  gazing  out  upon  the  water,  dream- 
ing and  waiting.  Waiting  for  you,  Richard,  dreaming 
of  you.  And  here  you  come  to  me  and  here — I  give 
myself  to  you." 

She  faced  him  as  she  spoke  and  took  his  other 
hand.  He  stared  at  her  in  the  shadow  of  the  ship. 
The  little  autumn  breeze  swept  softly  over  their  faces. 
Slowly  he  bent  his  head  toward  her.  She  awaited 
him,  smiling  faintly,  her  heart  beating  half  fearfully. 
It  was  so  new  and  sweet.  Then  his  lips  met  her  own  ; 
he  kissed  her,  he  swept  her  to  his  breast,  he  gathered 
her  in  his  arms.  Her  head  lay  upon  his  shoulder,  her 
face  was  upturned  to  his.  Her  eyes  were  light  in  the 
darkness  to  him.  The  perfume  of  her  breath  en- 
veloped him.  A  faint,  passionate  sigh  of  joy  and 
content  ineffable  escaped  her.  He  drank  in  the  white, 
exquisite  perfection  of  feature  so  close  to  him  ;  the 
purity  of  her  soul  spoke  there  equally  with  the  pas- 


IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  SHIP 

sion  of  her  heart.  She  was  his,  his  own ;  she  loved 
him,  she  gave  herself  to  him  !  May  God  deal  so  with 
him  as  he  dealt  with  her ! 

"  I  love  you,  I  love  you  !"  he  murmured. 

Pity  'tis  that  there  is  no  new  word  for  each  new 
meeting  and  mating  of  human  hearts  in  this  old 
world. 

Pity  'tis  that  the  words  we  say  so  lightly,  that  we 
use  so  frequently  of  things  of  less,  of  little,  moment, 
should  be  the  only  ones  we  have  with  which  to  voice 
the  deepest  feeling  of  our  being.  Yet  when  the  hour 
strikes,  to  each  heart  they  come  with  the  freshness  of 
a  new  revelation,  with  the  assurance  of  an  eternal 
truth  undiscovered  until  that  hour.  Never  again 
would  Emily  be  so  happy  as  in  that  supreme  moment 
of  avowal  and  confession. 

"  I  love  you,  I  love  you  !" 

It  was  only  a  whisper.  She  would  have  felt  the 
truth  had  he  been  voiceless. 

"  I  love  you,  I  love  you  !" 

It  was  but  a  murmur  that  blended  with  the  sigh  of 
the  wind,  that  harmonized  with  the  sound  made  by 
the  breeze  as  it  swept  through  the  cracks  and  crannies 
of  the  ship,  yet  another  listened,  another  heard. 

Profanation  to  the  royal  arcanum  of  their  hearts  ! 

One  had  marked  them  descending  the  hill,  one  had 
divined  that  they  would  stop  by  the  ship,  one  had  gone 
down  into  the  grim,  black  depths  of  the  monster  and 
with  his  ear  pressed  against  the  riven  side  had  heard, 
and  in  the  hearing  had  understood  what  he  could  not 
see. 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

So  despair,  heart-break,  envy,  jealousy,  raged  a  few 
feet  from  love  and  joy  and  peace  ineffable. 

So  in  life  it  happens.  Was  there  not  a  serpent  in 
the  Garden  of  Eden  ? 

As  he  heard  the  sound  of  lip  on  lip,  the  break  of 
kisses,  and  the  murmur  of  caressing  words,  the  man 
listening  could  endure  no  more.  He  turned  and 
stumbled  blindly  away.  Had  it  been  mid-day  he 
could  not  have  seen  where  he  went. 

The  sound  of  his  going  startled  Emily. 

"  What  is  that  ?"  she  cried  ;  "  something  moving  on 
the  ship  !" 

They  listened,  but  Barry  had  gone  far  enough  away 
by  that  time  for  them  not  to  hear  him  more. 

"'Twas  nothing,  dearest,"  answered  Revere,  hold- 
ing her  tenderly  to  him  ;  "  a  piece  of  timber,  a 
loosened  plank,  a  tottering  frame.  The  newest  and 
best  of  ships  are  full  of  strange  sounds,  much  more 
these  old  ones." 

"  Bit  by  bit  it  wears  away,"  said  the  girl,  sadly. 

"Ay,  sweet,  old  things  go,  but  new  ones  come," 
answered  Revere.  "  Life  ends,  yes,  but  new  life 
begins.  It  begins  for  us.  Come.  We  have  told  the 
ship  the  story.  Let  us  go  back  to  the  hill." 

"  Keep  thou  the  secret,  old  ship,"  said  Emily,  fan- 
cifully, yet  half  in  earnest ;  "  tell  it  not  while  thou 
livest,  and  if  thou  must  fall,  let  it  perish  with  thee." 

She  bent  and  kissed  the  plank.  Where  she  kissed 
it  Barry  had  listened.  The  whisper  of  love  and  the 
oath  of  despair, — a  few  inches  of  sheathing  alone 
divided  them. 


CHAPTER   XV 


FORGIVENESS  THE  FIRST  LESSON 


1 


kiss,  sweetest,"  said  Revere, 
gravely,  as  they  walked  up  the  hill, 
"has  made  the  ship  immortal  in  my 
heart.  It  shall  stand  until  it  falls 
away.  I  was  sent  here  by  the  govern- 
ment to  sell  the  ship.  It  was  to  be  destroyed." 

"  Oh,  Richard  !"  she  cried  in  sudden  anxiety  and 
alarm  at  his  words. 

"  Nay,  love  ;  say  nothing  of  it  to  any  one.  It  shall 
not  be." 

"  Who  will  prevent  it  ?" 

«  T   '» 

"You!     But  how?" 

"  I  shall  buy  it  myself  and  let  it  stand  as  long  as  it 
will." 

"  How  good  you  are  !"  she  exclaimed,  greatly  re- 
lieved. "  But,  Dick,  are  you  rich  enough  to  buy  a 
whole  ship  yourself?" 

"My  darling,"  he  answered,  "since  you  kissed  me 
I  think  I  have  the  mines  of  Golconda  at  my  command." 

"Ah,  but  kisses  won't  buy  ships,"  returned  the  wise 
maiden.  "  Seriously,  Richard  ?" 

"  Seriously,  dearest,  I  suppose  I  am  rich  enough  to 
123 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

buy  anything  I  want ;  that  is,  anything  in  reason  that 
is  buyable.  No  fortune  could  put  a  price  upon  you, 
I  am  afraid." 

"Nonsense,  Dick  !"  said  the  girl.  "Are  you  as 
rich  as  that?" 

"  I  am  of  the  opinion  that  I  am,"  he  said,  some- 
what reluctantly  ;  he  could  not  exactly  comprehend 
why.  "Does  it  disappoint  you?" 

"No,  I  believe  not,"  she  answered,  doubtfully.  "I 
never  dreamed  of  such  a  thing,  I'll  admit.  I  always 
thought  we  would  have  a  little  cottage  some- 
where  " 

"We?"  joyfully. 

"  Of  course.  We.  I  was  waiting  for  you,  you 
know." 

"  Well,  dearest,  I  hope  you  will  become  accustomed 
to  something  larger  than  a  cottage.  Money  has  some 
advantages,  you  know." 

"  I  doubt  not  I  shall  if  you  will  teach  me.  Oh, 
Dick,  I  am  so  happy !  I  feel  so  sorry  for  that  other 
girl." 

"  What  other  girl  ?"  he  asked,  faintly  conscience- 
smitten. 

"Josephine,  you  know.     The  girl  you  saved." 

Her  words  struck  him  like  a  blow.  They  brought 
him  to  himself.  He  had  to  tell  her  the  truth.  They 
were  by  this  time  sitting  side  by  side  on  the  gun- 
carriage  on  the  little  platform  overlooking  the  brow 
of  the  hill. 

"Emily,  dearest,"  said  Revere,  desperately.  He 
hated  to  do  it ;  he  told  himself  that  he  was  a  fool  to 

124 


FORGIVENESS  THE  FIRST  LESSON 

say  anything,  yet  her  presence  and  her  trust  com- 
pelled him.  "I  have  something  to  confess  to  you.  I 
cannot  allow  a  shadow  of  deceit  to  rest  on  our  hap- 
piness this  heavenly  night,  and  even  though  it  hurts 
you " 

"Tell  me,  Dick,"  she  said,  as  he  lingered,  reluctant 
to  speak,  "  whatever  it  may  be.  I  think  I  have  had 
happiness  enough  to  last  a  lifetime  as  it  is  ;  and  you 
love  me,  don't  you?  It  is  not  that  you  do  not?" 

"  Love  you  ?     I  worship  you  !" 

"  Then  nothing  can  matter  much,"  she  interrupted. 

"But  I  must  say  it,"  he  persevered;  "I  am — I 
was  engaged  to  marry " 

"Josephine?"   a  note  of  terror  in  the  exclamation. 

"Yes,"  with  great  contrition. 

There  was  a  long  silence.  The  girl  shrank  away 
from  him.  She  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  but  she  did 
not  weep.  That  would  come  later.  Was  she  not  to 
be  happy,  after  all  ? 

He  felt  so  guilty  and  conscience-stricken  that  he 
made  no  attempt  to  restrain  her  movement  of  avoid- 
ance, although  he  longed  to  take  her  in  his  arms  again. 

"Oh,  Richard,  how  could  you?"  she  said  at  last, 
the  misery  and  reproach  in  her  voice  cutting  him  to 
the  heart. 

"I  could  not  help  it." 

It  was  the  old  answer  that  seems  so  weak,  so  futile, 
so  foolish,  and  yet  the  only  answer  that  could  be 
given  ;  a  vague  reply,  and  yet  she  comprehended. 

"I've  been  a  mean  coward,"  he  exclaimed.  "But 
at  least  I  love  you,  and  I  could  not  help  it" 

125 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

"Yes,  I  believe  that — that  you  love  me,  I  mean, 
— but  you  could  have  helped  it,"  she  answered, 
faintly. 

"Well,  I  ought  to  have  helped  it,"  he  admitted,  in 
honest  misery ;  "but  I  love  you,  and  before  you  it 
was  hard  to  be  silent." 

"  But  you  loved  the  other  girl  before?" 

"  No,  never,  I  swear  to  you  !" 

"Look  me  in  the  face,  Richard." 

She  turned  him  about  in  the  moonlight  and  gazed 
at  him  keenly,  passionately,  hungrily  almost.  He 
met  her  glance  undaunted.  The  incubus  of  the  secret 
was  lifted  from  him — he  was  another  man,  even 
though  still  bound. 

"  Emily,  I  swear  to  you  that  my  heart  has  never 
beat  quicker  at  the  thought  of  her  since  I  have  known 
her.  Believe  that." 

"  Yes,  I  do  believe,"  said  the  girl,  trustingly,  at  last 

"  It  is  true,  and  you  may.  It  was  an  engagement 
entered  into  as  a  sort  of  family  affair,  and  I  never 
cared  anything  about  it  one 'way  or  the  other.  I 
thought  it  would  be  rather  pleasant " 

"Is  that  all?" 

"Yes,  on  my  honor,  until  1  met  you  ;  and  then  I 
knew  it  could  never  be." 

"You  said  you  were  engaged  to  her,  Richard. 
What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

*'  As  soon  as  I  could  after  I  had  spoken  to  you 
this  afternoon  I  wrote  to  her,  telling  her  the  truth 
about  my  love  for  you  and  giving  her  a  chance  to 
break  the  engagement." 

126 


FORGIVENESS  THE  FIRST  LESSON 

"Where  is  the  letter?" 

"It  is  gone." 

"  Suppose  she  will  not  break  it  ?" 

"She  will,  of  course." 

"  Dick,  I  know  that  she  loves  you.  I  know  she 
won't  give  you  up.  Oh,  my  heart  is  breaking  !" 

"Nonsense  ;  she  doesn't  love  me  at  all !" 

"  No  woman  could  help  it  who  knew  you  as  I  do," 
decidedly. 

"  No  one  knows  me  as  you  do,  dearest.  To  no 
one  have  I  ever  shown  my  heart,  myself,  as  I  have 
shown  them  to  you.  She  must  give  me  up  ;  she  shall ! 
I  tell  you  I  will  marry  no  woman  but  you,  no  matter 
what  happens !" 

"  And  I,  Dick,  will  marry  no  one  but  you.  But,  oh, 
the  pity  of  it !  Why  didn't  I  know  you  before  ?" 

"  But  you  believe  me,  don't  you,  that  I  love  you, 
only  you?" 

"Yes,  yes,  I  believe,"  mournfully. 

"And  you  will  trust  me?" 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  I  will  have  to  trust  you,"  she 
answered. 

"But  you  won't  do  that  merely  because  you  have 
to,  will  you  ?"  pleaded  the  young  man,  coming  nearer 
to  her. 

"  No,"  she  said  at  last,  faintly.  "  I  will  trust  you  be- 
cause I — I  love  you." 

He  suddenly  swept  her  to  his  breast  again  and 
kissed  her  once  more.  But  she  did  not  return  his  kiss, 
and  immediately  thrust  him  away  from  her. 

"  Please  do  not  do  that  again,  Richard  ;  at  least  not 
127 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

yet, "  she  murmured,  as  she  resolutely  disengaged  her- 
self from  his  embrace.  "Poor  girl!  you  don't  love 
her.  And  now  good-night.  I  must  think — it's  all  so 
strange — I  don't  know.  We  will  talk  over  what  is 
best  in  the  morning." 

"But  you  love  me  still?  You  won't  let  this  make 
any  difference,  will  you?"  he  pleaded,  in  deadly 
anxiety,  stretching  out  his  hands  to  her. 

"  It  won't  make  any  difference  in  my  love, — nothing 
will  ever  change  that,"  she  answered,  sadly;  "but  it 
makes  a  great  difference  in  my  happiness." 

Poor  Emily !  she  was  just  learning  that  the  begin- 
ning of  a  woman's  love  is  forgiveness. 

In  the  oldest  of  Books  is  written,  "It  is  not  good 
that  man  should  be  alone,"  and  the  saying  is  as  true 
as  it  is  ancient.  The  human  being  who  looks  at 
things  through  but  one  pair  of  eyes — his  own — is  apt 
to  receive  distorted  impressions,  to  see  strange  visions, 
and  to  dream  fearful  dreams. 

To  be  solitary  is  to  go  mad.  Society  is  the  pre- 
server and  promoter  of  intelligence  and  all  the  virtues  ; 
alas  !  of  many  of  the  vices  as  well.  Men — ay,  and 
women,  too — have  tried  to  dispense  with  humanity, 
seeking  something  higher.  They  have  withdrawn  them- 
selves from  the  world  a  while,  and,  far  from  the  madding 
crowd's  ignoble  strife,  in  the  vast  expanse  of  some 
limitless  desert,  or  upon  some  rough-ribbed  Sinai's 
rocky  crest,  in  seclusion  from  the  sound  of  tongues 
and  the  war  of  men,  have  sought  to  draw  near  to 
God. 

And  they  have  not  found  Him.  Rather  Satan  has 
128 


FORGIVENESS  THE  FIRST  LESSON 

entered  into  them  and  they  have  become  victims  of 
diabolic  obsession.  For  God  is  in  the  people.  The 
human  touch  conveys  the  divine.  The  attrition  of 
men  is  the  outward  force  that  makes  character.  Life 
is  to  fit  in  and  be  a  part  of  daily  duty  among  common 
men.  So  other  and  higher  life  is  won. 

Barry  was  a  man,  alone, — a  madman  now.  Revere 
had  added  the  finishing  touch  by  breaking  in  upon 
the  man's  solitude.  The  admiral  was  becoming 
only  a  daily  duty  to  the  sailor.  Habit  had  almost 
encysted  his  affection  for  his  superior.  As  Emily  had 
approached  womanhood  she  had  drawn  away  from 
Barry.  He  worshipped  her  from  a  greater  and  greater 
distance,  constantly  increasing.  And  now  that  she 
loved  one  of  her  own  age  and  her  own  class,  the 
old  man  felt  that  she  had  almost  vanished  from  his 
sight.  The  last  link  that  held  him  in  touch  with 
humanity  was  breaking.  Should  he  not  strike  while 
there  was  time  ?  Love  was  not  for  him,  but  hate  is 
everybody's.  He  should  claim  his  portion. 

The  rotting  ship  was  his  mountain,  his  desert,  his 
hermitage.  Its  bare,  gaunt  timbers  were  his  horizon. 
He  looked,  he  listened,  he  read  again  the  letters,  he 
agonized,  he  broke,  and  was  lost.  And  when  the 
devil  came  to  him,  under  the  guise  of  good  to  be 
accomplished,  he  found  a  place  ready,  swept  and 
garnished  for  him. 

Oh,  poor,  blind,  possessed  old  sailor ! 


129 


CHAPTER    XVI 


A  CLOUD  ON  THE  HORIZON 


ArICKENED  conscience  is  not  the  best 
of  soporifics,  and  Revere  was  a  long 
time  in  getting  to  sleep.     The  miser- 
able   situation    into    which    he    had 
plunged  himself,  however,  was  allevi- 
ated by  the  consciousness,  of  which  nothing  could 
deprive  him,  that  Emily  loved  him.     And  he  per- 
suaded himself  that  when  a  girl,  such  as  he  fancied 
her,    loved,    she    loved    forever.      Which   was   true. 
There  was  much  comfort  for  him  in  the  idea.     He 
could  not,  however,  take  the  joy  that  should  have 
been  his  in  the  realization  of  this  glorious  fact  until 
his  affairs  with  Josephine  had  been  adjusted.     As  for 
Emily,  she,  too,  mingled  her  grief  at  the  pre-engage- 
ment  with  joy  in  Richard's  love,  but  with  less  con- 
fidence in  its  permanence  ;  and,  like  his,  her  hours 
were  sorely  troubled. 

The  next  morning  she  carefully  avoided  seeing  him 
except  in  the  presence  of  others,  and  the  topics  they 
were  both  dying  to  discuss  remained  unbroached  until 
a  messenger  from  the  village,  a  servant  of  the  inn, 
delivered  a  note  to  Revere.  The  admiral  and  Emily 
were  on  the  porch  with  him  when  the  missive  was 

130 


A  CLOUD  ON  THE  HORIZON 

handed  to  him.  Barry  was  busy  at  something  down 
on  the  ship.  He  had  reported  to  the  admiral  early 
in  the  morning  that  there  were  some  repairs  that  he 
wished  to  make  which  would  probably  take  him  the 
whole  of  the  day.  However,  nobody,  unless  it  was 
the  admiral,  missed  him,  in  which  lay  the  pity  of  it  all. 

Revere  started  with  surprise  as  he  glanced  at  the 
address  on  the  envelope. 

"Why!"  he  exclaimed,  involuntarily,  "it  is  from 
my  mother !  Can  it  be  possible  that  she  is  here  ?" 

"A lady  guv  it  to  me  to  bring  to  you,"  said  the 
messenger.  "  She  come  to  the  tavern  late  last  night, 
an'  said  as  how  she  didn't  want  to  disturb  you  until 
mornin'." 

"Your  mother  !"  exclaimed  Emily.  "Why — 
what  can  she — how  does  it " 

As  she  spoke  Richard  tore  open  the  letter  and 
glanced  at  its  contents. 

"She  has  heard  some  garbled  account  of  my  ad- 
venture," he  said  to  Emily,  "  and  she  was  worried,  and 
has  come  over  here  to  see  me.  That's  all." 

"Did  she  come  alone?" 

"  Er — no  ;  not  exactly." 

"Who  is  with  her?"  with  dawning  suspicion. 

"  Miss  Remington." 

"  Oh  !"  with  great  surprise. 

"Well,  I  must  go  to  her  at  once,  I  suppose,"  said 
Revere,  doubtfully. 

"  Of  course,"  coldly  and  disdainfully. 

"  My  lad,"  said  the  admiral,  "  the  inn  is  but  a  poor 
place  for  ladies  of  quality  and  gentlefolk  to  stay. 

131 


Present  my  compliments  to  your  mother  and  her 
young  friend,  and  beg  them  to  honor  me  by  accept- 
ing our  hospitality  while  they  abide  in  this  latitude. 
Tell  them,  I  beg  of  you,  that  my  age  and  infirmities 
prevent  me  from  extending  the  invitation  in  person, 
but  that  my  granddaughter  will  call  upon  them  later 
and  invite  them  in  my  behalf." 

"  Oh,  grandfather  !     I— I " 

"My  mother  will  be  delighted  to  receive  Miss 
Emily,"  broke  in  Richard,  quickly.  "I  have  no 
doubt  that  her  plans  contemplate  remaining  here 
longer  than  a  day,  and  I  think  she  will  be  glad  to  ac- 
cept your  hospitality.  She  will  be  honored,  I  am 
sure.  Meanwhile,  I  must  go.  May  I  have  your  boat, 
Miss  Emily  ?  I  suppose  that  is  the  quickest  way  to 
the  village?" 

"Certainly,  Mr.  Revere." 

"  And  will  you  not  walk  down  to  the  landing  with 
me?" 

She  hesitated,  longing  yet  reluctant. 

"Of  course  she  will.  Go  with  him,  Emily,"  said 
the  admiral,  decisively. 

"Richard,"  said  the  girl,  as  soon  as  they  were  out 
of  earshot  of  the  porch,  "  they  have  come  about  that 
letter." 

"Yes,"  answered  Revere,  dejectedly,  forgetting  in 
his  confusion  that  they  had  arrived  the  night  before ; 
"  I  suppose  so.  I  didn't  think  it  possible  that  it  could 
have  reached  them  by  this  time.  My  man  must  have 
made  good  time.  Oh,  dear  ;  what  shall  I  do  ?  Was 
ever  innocent  man  placed  in  so  miserable  a  position  ?" 

132 


A  CLOUD  ON  THE  HORIZON 

"Oh,  Richard,  you  are  involved  innocently — you 
say  you  could  not  help  loving  me " 

"I  couldn't" 

"  But  you  had  no  right  to  involve  me,  sir.  But 
there,  I  won't  reproach  you.  She  won't  give  you  up  ; 
you  will  have  to  keep  your  word,  that's  all." 

She  spoke  with  infinite  sadness. 

"You  have  loved  me,  anyway,  and  that's  a  great 
deal.  I  ought  to  be  thankful  for  that,  I  suppose,"  she 
continued. 

They  were  sheltered  now  from  the  observation  of 
every  one, — but  Barry  from  the  ship, — and  she  put 
her  handkerchief  up  to  her  eyes  and  sobbed  out  the 
following  in  broken  sentences  : 

"I've  thought  it  out  all  night  long,  Richard.  You 
saved  that  girl's  life  ;  she  has  a  claim  on  you.  I  know 
she  loves  you  deeply  ;  and  of  course  she  won't  give  you 
up.  I — I  wouldn't  myself,"  she  wailed.  "I  hope 
you  will  be  very  hap — hap — happy  with  her  and — 
you  will  forget  all  about  this.  Oh,  Dick,  Dick !" 

"  My  heavens  !  Emily,  you  nearly  drive  me  dis- 
tracted !  I  tell  you  I  couldn't  be  happy  with  an  arch- 
angel if  she  were  not  you  !  She  must  give  me  up ! 
She  shall !  I  don't  really  suppose  she  will  hesitate  a 
moment.  Why,  if  she  could  see  you  she  would  know 
in  a  glance  that  I  could  not  help  falling  in  love  with 
you." 

"Probably  she  thinks  she's  as  nice  as  I  am,"  she 
continued,  through  her  tears.  "  She  would  look  upon 
me  as  an  ignorant  little  country  girl.  She  would 
wonder  how  you  could  possibly  fall  in  love  with  me. 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

I  wonder  about  it  myself.  You  do  love  me,  don't 
you?"  anxiously. 

"  Of  course  I  do.  I  have  told  you  a  thousand 
times,  and  I  mean  it !  I  mean  it  more  every  time  I 
tell  you,  and  I  want  to  tell  you  more  every  time  I  see 
you.  I  won't  marry  Josephine  Remington,  and  that's 
all  there  is  about  it !" 

"You  must !"  decisively. 

"  If  you  say  that  again,  Emily,  we  will  quarrel  right 
here,"  sternly. 

"  Perhaps  that  would  be  best.  If  we  quarrelled  it 
would  be  easier  to  break  it  off." 

"Well,  we  won't  quarrel,  then.  But  what  I  am 
going  to  do  I  cannot  say.  I'll  just  tell  the  truth  and 
stick  to  it  I  wish — oh,  I  wish — they  hadn't  come  ! 
I  do  not  want  to  see  her  at  all." 

"  But  you  must  go,  and  go  right  away  !" 

"  Oh,  very  well.  The  sooner  it  is  over  the  better, 
perhaps.  Good-by,  Emily." 

"Good-by,  Richard,"  heartbrokenly. 

"Won't  you  kiss  me  good-by?  You  have  not 
kissed  me  since  last  night.  You  have  not  let  me  see 
you  alone  this  long  morning,"  reproachfully. 

"  No,"  answered  Emily,  with  sad  decision  ;  "  I  do 
not  believe  I  shall  kiss  you.  We  are  not  yet  engaged, 
and  you  may  not  belong  to  me,  after  all.  I  think  I 
would  better  not." 

"  Oh,  all  right,  then,"  with  a  savage  simulation  of 
unconcern. 

"You  are  not  angry,  are  you  ?"  timidly. 

"  No,  I  am  not  angry  ;  but  I  am  awfully " 


A  CLOUD  ON  THE  HORIZON 

"You  see  I  am  afraid  it's  the  end  and  another  kiss 
would  make  it — harder." 

She  spoke  slowly,  with  a  note  of  interrogation  in  her 
voice.  For  answer  he  clasped  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed 
her  fervently  again  and  again.  She  remained  weakly 
struggling  for  a  moment,  but  finally  returned  his 
caresses.  Presently,  however, — after  she  had  been  well 
kissed,  by  the  way, — her  determination  came  back  to 
her.  She  burst  from  his  arms  with  a  violent  effort, 
exclaiming, — 

"There,  go  !  And  I  suppose  you  will  be  with  them 
all  day?" 

"I  will  come  back  to  you  as  soon  as  I  can  get 
away." 

"  Oh,  Dick,  I  suppose  I  will  have  to  go  over  there 
in  the  afternoon  and  invite  them  here.  What  will 
your  mother  think  of  me?  I  don't  believe  I  ever 
met  a  high-born,  high-bred  lady  in  my  life.  I  wouldn't 
know  what  to  do." 

"  Do  just  as  you  always  do  ;  be  yourself;  and  if  my 
experience  is  any  criterion,  she  will  adore  you  as  I  do. 
Good-by." 


CHAPTER   XVII 


FREED  ! 


IN  the  same  little  parlor  of  the  inn  in  which  he 
had  lunched  with  Emily  the  day  before,  Revere 
awaited  the  entrance  of  his  mother  and  Jose- 
phine.    His  mother  entered  first  and  imme- 
diately clasped  him  in  fond  embrace. 
"  Oh,  Richard  !"  she  exclaimed,  tearfully  ;  "  I  have 
been  so  miserable  about  you  !     You  never  said  a  word 
about  the  gravity  of  your  accident,  and  I  only  learned 
about  it  accidentally.     You  are  not  suffering,  are  you  ? 
You  have  sustained  no  serious  consequences?" 

"No,  mother  dear ;  I'm  all  right.  In  fact,  I  feel 
better  than  I  have  felt  for  six  months.  It  really  did 
me  good.  It  was  awfully  good  of  you  to  come  to  see 
about  me,  though.  I  should  have  written  and  told  you 
all  about  it  and  assured  you  that  nothing  serious  was 
the  matter,  but  I  thought  it  would  alarm  you  if  I  did  ; 
if  I  dwelt  upon  it  too  fully,  that  is.  I'm  very  glad  to 
see  you  ;  but  there  was  no  real  necessity  for  your 
coming." 

"Richard,"  she  answered,  hesitatingly,  with  a  long 
sigh  of  regret,  "I  did  not  come  only  on  that  account 
To  be  perfectly  frank  with  you,  Josephine — you  have 
not  yet  greeted  her." 

136 


FREED  ! 

She  stopped  abruptly.  He  turned  and  faced  Jose- 
phine, who  had  stood  constrainedly  in  the  door-way, 
apparently  an  unwilling  witness  of  the  meeting. 

"  Oh,"  he  said  to  her  ;  "  how  do  you  do,  Josephine  ? 
I'm  awfully  glad  to  see  you." 

He  had  hitherto  always  signalized  meetings  of  this 
kind  by  kissing  her,  generally  upon  the  forehead  or 
cheek.  With  a  vivid  recollection  of  his  present  situa- 
tion, however,  he  hesitated  awkwardly,  and  then  con- 
cluded that  it  would  be  better  to  act  as  if  nothing  had 
happened.  But  to  his  great  surprise  the  objection 
came  from  the  young  lady  herself.  As  if  she  had 
divined  something  of  his  mental  attitude,  she  drew 
back  her  head  and  thrust  out  her  hand.  He  took  it, 
feeling  very  much  embarrassed,  yet  greatly  relieved. 

"What  a  greeting,"  said  his  mother,  "between — 
but  I  forget.  Josephine  has  something  to  say  to  you, 
Richard.  She  has  made  a  decision  which  is  a  source 
of  lasting  grief  to  me,  and  will  be  to  all  who  know 
you.  I  am  sure  it  will  be  a  great  shock  to  you.  Pre- 
pare yourself,  my  poor  boy." 

"Didn't  you  get  my  letter,  Josephine?"  said 
Richard,  impetuously. 

"No  ;  I  didn't  receive  any  letter." 

"Oh,  then,  you  didn't " 

"Didn't  what?" 

"Well,  er — nothing.  What  was  it  you  wanted  to 
say  to  me  ?' ' 

"Richard,"  said  the  girl,  "I  may  as  well  be  frank 
with  you.  I — "  She  hesitated  and  turned  her  face 
away.  "  I  want  to  break  our  engagement." 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

"Want  to  break  our  engagement!"  he  exclaimed, 
dazed  at  this  development.  "Why — I " 

"Yes,"  she  said,  honestly;  "frankly,  I  do  not 
believe  that  I  care  enough  for  you  to  marry  you." 

"  But,  Josephine " 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  I  know  what  you  would  say.  I  thought 
I  loved  you  ;  but  since  I  have  come  to  know — Mr. 
Van  Dorn,  I  am  sure " 

"Josephine  Remington,  you  don't  mean  to  tell  me 
that  you  have  thrown  me  over  for  Charlie  Van  Dorn  ? 
Why,  he " 

"Richard,  don't  say  another  word!  I  love  Mr. 
Van  Dorn,  and  he  loves  me,  and  I  have  promised  to 
be  his  wife,"  with  great  dignity. 

"Great  heavens  !"  answered  Richard,  trying  des- 
perately to  keep  his  happiness  at  this  announcement 
out  of  his  voice  and  out  of  his  face  ;  and  yet  he  had  to 
confess  that  he  felt  extremely  annoyed  at  being  re- 
jected in  this  summary  manner  for  a  man  who  he 
conceived  to  be  in  every  way  inferior  to  himself. 

He  rejoiced,  certainly ;  but  the  situation  had  ele- 
ments of  unpleasantness.  For  a  moment  or  two  these 
had  predominated,  but  as  he  realized  that  he  was  free, 
he  could  hardly  keep  from  shouting  for  joy.  Indeed, 
he  felt  that  his  face  would  betray  his  secret,  and  he  in- 
stinctively turned  away  from  the  two  women,  who  were 
intently  watching  him,  and  covered  it  with  his  hand 
as  he  did  so. 

"Oh,  Richard!"  cried  Josephine,  contritely,  "I'm 
so  sorry  ;  I  didn't  think  you  cared  so  much.  I  thought 
you  felt  as  I  do  about  the  engagement, — only  that  it 

138 


FREED  ! 

was  an  agreed  thing,  and  everybody  more  or  less  ex- 
pected it, — not  that  we  loved  each  other  very  much — 
I'm  so  sorry." 

"  My  poor  boy !"  said  his  mother,  coming  up  and 
laying  her  hand  tenderly  on  his  bowed  head  ;  "  this  is 
nearly  as  great  a  disappointment  to  me  as  it  must  be 
to  you,  although,  of  course,  my  grief  cannot  be  like 
yours.  Josephine,  why  didn't  you  wait  a  little  longer? 
And  in  his  weak  state,  too  !" 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Revere,  smiling — they  thought 
him  smiling  bravely,  by  the  way  ! — "  I  dare  say  I  shall 
get  over  it ;  and  if  Josephine  really  loves  Charlie  Van 
Dorn,  who  is  a  splendid  fellow,  of  course  it  is  very 
much  better  that  she  should  tell  me  frankly  than  feel 
that  she  must  remain  bound  by  an  engagement  in 
which  her  heart  does  not  enter.  Let  us  say  no  more 
about  it.  I  will  take  my  medicine  like  a  man,"  he 
continued,  mendaciously  ;  "  and  I  congratulate  you, 
Josephine,  on  your  pluck.  I  presume  that  I  may  kiss 
you  now,  just  as  I  have  done  before,"  he  said,  touch- 
ing his  lips  to  her  forehead  as  he  spoke. 

"  Yes,  Richard.  But  I  am  sure  they  were  never 
very  lover-like  kisses  at  best. " 

"  Not  like  Van  Dorn's,  eh  !"  said  Richard,  smiling. 

"  Richard,  how  can  you  jest  about  so  serious  a 
subject?"  exclaimed  his  mother.  "Poor  boy!"  she 
said  aside  to  Josephine  ;  "  I  fear  his  nerves  are  shat- 
tered." 

"They  are,  mother,  they  are,"  exclaimed  Richard, 
rapturously,  giving  her  a  bear-like  hug  ;  "but  it's  all 
right." 

139 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

"Then,  you  don't  care  so  very  much,  after  all?"  said 
Josephine,  in  her  turn  disappointed  at  the  equanimity, 
not  to  say  levity,  with  which  her  quondam  lover  re- 
ceived the  news  of  her  engagement  to  another  man. 

"  Care  ?  Of  course  I  care  !  There,  don't  say  any- 
thing more  about  it.  Mother,  did  they  tell  you  that 
my  life  was  saved  by  a — er — a  young  woman  ?' ' 

Ah,  Richard,  where  was  Barry  then  ? 

"A  young  woman  !"  exclaimed  his  mother,  peering 
at  him  through  her  lorgnette  in  her  very  best  Boston 
manner.  "  What  sort  of  a  person  is  she  ?" 

"She  is  not  a  person  at  all,  mother,"  he  answered, 
hotly  and  inconsequentially ;  "  she  is  a  charming 
young  girl,  the  granddaughter  of  one  of  the  most  dis- 
tinguished officers  in  the  United  States  navy.  And 
she  is  as  beautiful  as  she  is  brave  and  good." 

"And  who  may  this  distinguished  man  be?"  asked 
his  mother,  doubtfully. 

"  Admiral  Charles  Stewart,  of  the  Constitution'' 

"Mercy!"  she  exclaimed.  "Is  he  yet  alive?  I 
remember  hearing  of  him  when  I  was  a  little  girl." 

'  He  is  very  much  alive  and  his  granddaughter 
lives  with  him  over  yonder,"  he  answered,  pointing 
out  of  the  window  across  the  bay  toward  the  old  white 
house  embowered  in  the  trees  on  Ship  House  Point 
"That  is  his  home,  and  he  bade  me  say  to  you  that 
he  would  be  honored  to  have  you  and  Josephine  ac- 
cept his  hospitality  while  you  are  here.  He  begs  to 
be  excused  for  his  apparent  discourtesy  in  not  coming 
to  invite  you  in  person,  but  he  is  unable  to  leave  the 
house,  he  is  so  old  and  feeble.  His  granddaughter, 

140 


FREED  ! 

however,  will  call  this  afternoon  and  extend  the  in- 
vitation, if  it  will  be  agreeable  to  you." 

"I  do  not  think  we  should  stand  on  ceremony, 
Josephine,  under  the  circumstances,  and  we  will  go 
ourselves  and  call  upon  the  admiral  immediately,"  said 
Mrs.  Revere.  "  I  should  like  to  see  this  young  lady 
and  thank  her  for  Richard.  How  shall  we  get  there, 
Dick?" 

"  I  will  row  you  over  if  you  will  allow  me.  There 
is  a  road  by  land,  but  this  is  a  quicker  and  pleasanter 
way." 

"  Excuse  me,  Richard  ;  I  think  we  would  better  go 
by  land.  I  presume  you  can  get  some  sort  of  a  car- 
riage. I  confess  I  am  not  fond  of  boats  at  best,  and 
since  you  were  wrecked  in  the  Josephine  I  have  a 
horror  of  venturing  on  them." 

"Very  well,  mother;  I  will  make  all  the  arrange- 
ments, and  meanwhile  go  back  to  the  admiral  and  tell 
him  to  expect  you." 

"Do  so,"  said  his  mother ;  "we  will  go  and  make 
ready.  Come,  Josephine." 

"  Presently,"  answered  Miss  Remington  ;  "  I  wish 
to  speak  to  Dick  a  minute." 

"  Richard,"  said  his  whilom  fiancee,  when  they 
were  alone,  "  are  you  in  love  with  that  girl?" 

"Well,  er " 

"Answer  me  honestly  !" 

"  I  think  it  is  very  likely  that  I  shall  be,  Josephine," 
he  responded  at  last.  "You  see,  since  you  have 
thrown  me  over  I " 

"  Dick  Revere,  I  believe  you  are  in  love  with  her 
141 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

now  ;  I  don't  believe  you  care  a  single  bit  whether  I 
throw  you  over  or  not." 

"  Care  !"  exclaimed  Revere.  "  I  care  immensely, 
I  want  to  assure  you,  Josephine.  But  I  really  do  not 
see,  since  you  have  thrown  me  over,  that  you  have 
any  right  to  object  to  my  falling  in  love  with  anybody 
else,  have  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  said  Josephine,  petulantly  ;  "  no 
doubt  what  you  say  is  true ;  but  one  thing  is 
certain  :  I  am  just  as  anxious  to  see  that  girl  as  your 
mother  is." 

"Just  about  as  anxious,  I  suppose,"  laughed 
Revere,  "  as  I  should  be  to  see  Charlie  Van  Dorn  if 
I  hadn't  seen  him  until  I  am  sick  of  the  sight  of 
him  !"  he  said,  meanly.  "Well,  prepare  yourself,  Miss 
Josephine  Remington  ;  you  will  see  something  charm- 
ing when  you  do  see  '  that  girl'  !  Good-by !" 


143 


CHAPTER    XVIII 


BUT  YET  A  WOMAN" 


K^ERE  had  pulled  in  many  an  Academy 
boat  race.     He  had  stroked  his  cutter 
many  a  time  when  a  cadet,  but  he  never 
put  so  much  vim  and  force  into  the  oars 
as  he  did  that  morning.     In  an  incredi- 
bly short  time  he  was  at  the  landing-place.    Forgetful 
of  his  condition,  he  bounded  up  the  hill  as  if  he  had 
been  a  boy.     Emily  and  the  admiral  were  still  on 
the  porch.     Emily  was  looking  very  subdued  and  sad, 
and  there  was  a  world  of  entreaty  in  the  agonized 
glance  she  cast  upon  him.     His  radiant  face  gave  her 
delightful   assurance,  which   his   words   turned    into 
ecstasy.     He  chose  a  novel  way  of  announcing  his 
news  to  her. 

"  Admiral  Stewart,"  he  said,  precipitately,  as  he 
stopped  panting,  "  I  have  the  honor  to  ask  you  for  the 
hand  of  your  granddaughter,  Miss  Emily.  I  love  her 

and  I — I  have  reason  to  believe  that  she " 

He  hesitated  and  looked  at  the  blushing  girl,  who 
had  sprung  to  her  feet  at  his  first  word,  and  now  stood 
poised  as  if  for  flight 

It  was  all  right,  then  ;  he  was  released,  he  was  free ! 
She  knew  that  he  would  never  have  spoken  to  her 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

grandfather  unless  he  could  honorably  do  so.  Her 
heart  that  had  been  so  heavy  was  leaping  in  her 
bosom  at  the  gladsome  thought.  Free  to  love  her, 
free  to  take  her  for  his  own  !  The  other  girl  had 
given  him  up,  then.  How  could  she  do  it  ?  But  she 
had !  And  he  was  hers  now !  She  must  go  away, 
though,  while  the  two  men  talked  it  over. 

She  turned  swiftly  toward  the  entrance  to  the 
house.  The  admiral,  wide  awake  instantly,  turned 
and  caught  her  by  the  hand.  Escape  cut  off,  she 
dropped  on  her  knees  by  the  old  man's  side.  What 
answer  would  her  grandfather  make  ?  What  would 
he  say  or  do  ? 

"  Child,"  he  said  at  last,  fondly  looking  down  at  her, 
"  is  this  true  ?" 

"True  that  he  loves  me,  grandfather?  He — he 
says  so,  sir." 

"  Do  you  believe  him,  my  dear?" 

« I — yes,  sir  ;  I  think  I  do." 

"And  I  do,  too,  Emily.  If  ever  I  heard  truth 
ring  in  a  man's  voice,  I  hear  it  now.  But  this  is  not 
all.  Do  you  love  him,  daughter?" 

"Yes,  grandfather,"  she  whispered,  "I'm  afraid — 
I  do." 

She  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  on  his  knee,  and  the 
old  man  laid  his  hand  softly  on  her  head,  murmuring 
words  of  prayer  and  blessing.  As  Revere  watched 
them  he  thought  they  made  a  perfect  pair. 

"Are  you  able  to  support  a  wife,  lad  ?"  asked  the 
veteran,  at  last,  as  he  stroked  the  sunny  hair  of  his 
granddaughter. 

144 


"  BUT  YET  A  WOMAN" 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  amply  able." 

"  You  have  something  more  than  a  lieutenant's  pay, 
then?" 

"Yes,  sir  ;  I  have  a  private  fortune  of  my  own." 

"And  your  mother?" 

"  I  have  not  told  her  yet,  sir ;  but  she  is  coming 
to  call  upon  you  immediately,  and  then  I  shall  do 
so.  I  have  no  doubt  what  her  answer  will  be ; 
although,  whatever  it  be,  I  am  a  man  in  years  and 
my  own  master,  and " 

"Nay,  lad,  a  man's  never  wholly  his  own  master  in 
the  presence  of  a  good  mother,  and  I'd  have  no  child 
of  mine  coldly  welcomed  into  any  family.  We  shall 
see  what  your  mother  says.  If  she  be  content,  I  shall 
be  very  glad.  You  have  no  other  tie  ?" 

Emily  lifted  her  head  and  looked  at  Revere  as  this 
question  was  put.  There  were  tears  in  her  eyes  and 
her  heart  almost  ceased  beating.  She  was  sure  of  the 
answer,  yet  she  longed  to  hear  his  specific  reply. 

"No,  sir,"  answered  the  young  man,  boldly. 

"Oh,  Richard!"  exclaimed  Emily;  "and  Jose- 
phine !" 

"Josephine  !"  said  the  old  ma.n  ;  "who  is  she?" 

"A  connection  of  my  family,  sir,  who  has  just  an- 
nounced to  me  her  engagement  to  an  estimable  young 
man  of  our  acquaintance." 

"  Richard,"  said  Emily,  springing  to  her  feet,  "  you 
don't  mean  it?" 

"I  do.     Will  you  kiss  me  now,  Emily?" 
Forgetful  of  the  old  man,  she  sprang  into  his  arms. 

"Children,  children!"  said  the  admiral,  smiling  in- 
i45 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

diligently  ;  "you  are  in  a  great  hurry,  it  seems  tome. 
Ah,  well,  I  remember  when  I  was  a  lad,  so  many 
years  ago,  I  was  in  a  hurry,  too.  Now  I  wait  In- 
differently I  wait  It  cannot  be  much  longer,  and  yet, 
for  your  sake,  dear  child,  I  was  loath  to  go.  Now, 
please  God, — and  your 'mother,  young  sir, — the  child 
will  be  cared  for.  We  can  go  now,  I  and  the  ship.  I 
trust  I  will  be  able  to  leave  you  in  love's  hands  ;  in 
the  hands  of  a  gentleman  and  a  sailor,  an  officer  of 
the  navy  of  the  United  States, — your  mother  consent- 
ing, my  lad, — that  is  as  I  would  have  it  Revere, 
may  God  bless  you  as  you  deal  tenderly  and  lovingly 
with  this  daughter  of  my  old,  old  age." 

"And  may  God  judge  me,  sir,  if  I  do  not  so," 
answered  Richard,  solemnly. 

"This  kiss  is  for  you,  grandfather,"  answered  the 
happy  Emily,  turning  to  him. 


146 


CHAPTER     XIX 


THE  USUAL  COURSE 


1 


were  together  on  the  gun-plat- 
form once  more,  Emily  and  Revere. 
She  sat  on  the  gun-carriage  and  he 
leaned  against  the  parapet  by  her  side. 
He  held  a  fold  of  her  dress  in  his  hand. 
"  Now,  Dick,"  she    said,    "  tell   me    all  about   it 
Was  she  vexed  when  she  received  your  letter?" 

"  My  darling,  she  has  not  seen  it.  She  and  mother 
started  before  my  man  got  there.  He  is  probably 
bringing  it  back  here  now.  As  good  luck  would  have 
it,  she  has  fallen  in  love  with  a  certain  Charles  Van 
Dorn.  He's  rather  a  poor  stick,  too,  I  think." 

"She  must  be  a  strange  girl,  Dick,  to  fall  in  love 
with  anybody  else  when  you  were  around." 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  At  any  rate,  she  did  fall  in 
love,  and  she  came  here  of  her  own  motion  to  break 
the  engagement." 

' '  I  wonder  how  she  will  feel  when  she  gets  the 
letter?" 

"  Well,  dearest,  I  thought,  under  the  circumstances, 
I  wouldn't  give  it  to  her." 

"Not  give  it  to  her?"  cried  the  girl,  with  sudden 
promptness  and  decision  ;  "  indeed  you  will  give  her 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

that  letter,  sir !  She  shall  know  you  toved  me  before 
she  released  you,  and  that  you  were  going  to  break 
the  engagement  yourself.  I  won't  have  her  think  for 
a  moment  that  I  just  got  you  because  she  threw  you 
over.  Not  give  her  the  letter,  indeed  !" 

"Well,  Emily,"  said  Revere,  deprecatingly,  greatly 
surprised  at  this  outburst;  "you  see  I  thought  I 
would  save  her  the — er — humiliation,  you  know,  of 
being  rejected  by  a  man." 

"  And  you  will  inflict  on  me,  Richard  Revere,  the 
humiliation  of  letting  her  think  that  I  only  have  you 
because  she  didn't  want  you  !  That  I — "  furiously. 

"  Now,  my  dear  ;  you  know  perfectly  well  that's 
different.  If  she  has  half  an  eye,  as  soon  as  she  sees 
us  together,  she  will  know  that  I  love  you  desperately 
as  I  never  loved  her.  She  is  a  bright  girl." 

"  Bright !  I  don't  think  so !"  contemptuously.  "  She 
is  very  stupid  to  give  you  up  ;  but  I'm  glad  she  is " 

"  I  should  think  she  would  be  awfully  sorry  to  know 
that  a  man  had  broken  his  engagement  with  her,  and 
that's  why  I " 

"  Mr.  Revere,  I  believe  you  are  sorry  yourself,  after 
all !  I  believe  you  are  half  in  love  with  her  still !" 
reproachfully. 

"  Now,  Emily,  you  know  that's  nonsense.  Why,  I 
felt  so  joyful  when  she  said  she  was  in  love  with 
that  Van  Dorn,  that  I  had  to  turn  away  my  face  for 
fear  she  would  see  how- enraptured  I  was." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  her  frankly,  honestly,  right 
then,  that  you  were  pleased  with  it ;  that  you  were 
engaged  to  me  ;  that  you  had  broken  the  engage- 

148 


THE  USUAL  COURSE 

ment  before?  It  was  your  duty, — your  duty  to  me. 
You  failed  me;  you  failed  me  before.  I  can't  trust 
you."  Most  unkindly  and  unjustly  spoken  words  were 
these,  indeed. 

"  Why,  Emily,  my  dear  child " 

"I'm  not  a  child,  and  don't  you  call  me  one!  I 
am  a  woman,  though  you  treat  me  like  a  child,  and 
I'm  not  dear  to  you,  either  !  You  are  sacrificing  me 
to  that  other  girl,"  bitterly,  tearfully,  but  with  great 
determination. 

Revere  was  nonplussed  by  the  revelation  of  these 
essentially  feminine  characteristics  in  Emily's  other- 
wise charming  personality.  He  did  not  know  what 
to  do  or  how  to  answer  her  in  his  bewilderment. 

"Are  you  going  to  give  her  that  letter  or  not?"  she 
asked,  insistently,  after  a  pause  which  he  appeared 
unable  to  break  unaided. 

"  Well,"  he  said  at  last,  but  very  reluctantly,  "  I 
suppose  if  you  insist  upon  it  I  must ;  but  frankly,  I 
think  it  would  be  better  not  to  do  so.  I  do  not  believe 
it  is  right." 

"  Is  there  something  in  it  you  don't  want  me  to 
know?"  suspiciously. 

"  Nothing  ;  absolutely  nothing.  I  told  you  all  I  said 
as  near  as  I  can  remember.  It's  a  matter  of  princi- 
ple, Emily.  I  think  you  are  wrong,  dearest.  I " 

"  Oh,  sir ;  then  you  will  sacrifice  me,  will  you,  to 
your  principle?  Very  well,  Mr.  Revere,  understand 
one  thing :  if  you  do  not  give  that  letter  to  her  as 
soon  as  you  get  it  back,  you  do  not  get  me.  I  will 
not  have  any  one  think  I  am  a  second  choice." 

149 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 


"But,  Emily- 


"  Don't  say  anything  more  to  me !"  she  flashed  out. 
"  I  never  was  so  angry  in  my  life  !  Perhaps  you  are 
tired  of  me,"  impatiently  and  proudly. 

"Perhaps  you  are  tired  of  me,"  answered  Richard, 
shortly,  his  own  quick  temper  having  at  last  reached 
the  outbreaking  point.  "  I  think  you  are  very  cruel 
indeed,  to  want  to  hurt  this  poor  girl's  feelings,  and  I 
do  not  see  why  you  are  crying  now,  either,"  he  added, 
as  Emily,  under  the  stimulus  of  this  reproach,  the 
force  of  which  she  recognized,  put  her  handkerchief 
to  her  face  and  burst  into  tears.  "  It  seems  to  me 
you  have  entirely  the  best  of  the  game.  My  engage- 
ment is  broken  ;  I  am  free  to  love  you,  and  I  do, 
and  to  marry  you,  and  I  hope  to.  You  have  me,"  he 
went  on  with  unconscious  egotism  ;  "  that  ought  to 
content  you.  Josephine  will  know,  as  soon  as  she  sees 
us  together,  that  I  love  you,"  he  continued,  sharply, 
"and  that's  enough." 

"  I  wonder  what  she  would  think  of  your  love  if  she 
saw  us  together  now,"  wailed  Emily.  "I  don't  care 
what  you  say  ;  it's  humiliating  to  me ;  it's  brutal  treat- 
ment You  say  I  have  everything.  You  say  I  ought 
to  be  satisfied  with  you.  I'm  not !  So,  there  !" 

"Very  well,"  said  Revere,  coldly  ;  "I  will  leave  you 
to  think  it  over,  and  then,  if  you  insist,  I  shall  give  her 
the  letter,  and  you  will  be  sorry  for  it  as  long  as  you 
live." 

"I  won't!"  determinedly. 

"I  hope  you  will,  anyway,"  with  equal  determina- 
tion. 

150 


THE  USUAL  COURSE 

"  I  never  dreamed  you  could  be  so  rude  and  so 
unkind  to  me,"  she  sobbed.  ''I  am  sorry  that " 

"  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  break  our  engagement, 
Miss  Sanford?"  coldly. 

"  Oh,  as  you  please,  Mr.  Revere,"  with  well-simu- 
lated indifference. 

''There  is  a  carriage  coming  up  the  drive,"  he  re- 
marked, glad  of  a  diversion  when  they  had  reached 
this  uncomfortable  point  in  the  conversation.  "  My 
mother  and  Josephine  are  in  it." 

"  Mercy  !"  exclaimed  the  girl,  secretly  glad  of  the 
interruption,  too  ;  "and  they  will  see  that  I  have  been 
crying !" 

"As  to  the  engagement?"  continued  Richard,  dog- 
gedly ;  but  Emily  started  suddenly  to  her  feet  and  ran 
up  to  the  house,  leaving  his  question  unanswered. 
He  followed  her  moodily  and  gloomily,  feeling  very 
low  in  spirits  as  well  as  very  much  annoyed. 

Barry  had  been  busy  all  day  about  the  ship,  but  he 
had  not  been  too  much  occupied  to  see  Revere  and 
Emily  whenever  they  were  within  range,  and  he  had 
kept  close  watch  upon  them.  Too  far  away  to  deter- 
mine what  was  going  on  by  the  gun,  he  could  at  least 
see  that  the  girl  was  weeping,  that  she  was  unhappy, 
and  he  realized  that  she  had  left  Revere  in  anger  and 
disappointment.  The  young  officer  was  beginning 
early  to  torment  her,  to  break  her  heart, — so  the  old 
sailor  surmised.  If  Barry  needed  any  more  inspira- 
tion, that  was  enough.  But  he  was  already  suffi- 
ciently determined  upon  his  plan,  and  he  went  back 
to  his  work  with  the  fury  of  desperation  renewed. 

151 


CHAPTER    XX 


RIVALS  MEETING 


KrERE  reached  the  house  just  as  the  car- 
riage drew  up  before  the  door.  He 
assisted  his  mother  and  Josephine  to 
descend  therefrom,  and  the  two  ladies 
walked  up  the  steps  to  the  porch  and 
were  formally  presented  to  the  old  admiral. 

In  honor  of  the  occasion,  for,  as  he  said,  he  did  not 
often  have  the  privilege  of  entertaining  guests  of  such 
distinction,  the  veteran  had  dressed  himself  in  the  old 
uniform  in  which  he  had  fought  his  battles.  The  lace 
was  faded  and  tarnished,  and  the  coat  hung  loosely 
enough  about  his  thin  and  shrunken  figure  ;  but  the 
ancient  uniform  seemed  to  mark  the  age  of  the  old 
man,  typifying  that  past,  forever  gone,  of  which  he  had 
been  so  splendid  a  figure.  The  huge  chapeau,  the 
high  stock,  the  ruffled  shirt,  the  tight  breeches,  and 
the  half-boots  might  have  incited  laughter  in  the  ir- 
reverent ;  but  to  Richard  and  his  mother,  and  to  Jose- 
phine as  well,  they  seemed  entirely  appropriate. 

And  the  admiral's  manner — gracious,  courteous — 
was  quite  in  accord  with  his  garments.  It  was  distinctly 
old-fashioned  in  its  gallantry  and  exquisite  in  its  defer- 
ence. Mrs.  Revere,  a  grand  dame  herself,  was  evi- 

152 


They  were  formally  presented  to  the  old  admiral 


RIVALS  MEETING 

dently  charmed  with  him  ;  while  on  her  own  part  she 
made  a  not  less  favorable  impression  upon  the  old 
gentleman,  who,  in  his  day,  had  always  mingled  with 
the  best  It  was  long  since  the  admiral  had  been 
in  the  society  of  such  a  woman,  and  he  keenly  de- 
lighted in  the  little  conversation  that  ensued.  Jose- 
phine, too,  came  in  for  a  due  share  of  attention,  and, 
as  any  young  girl  would  have  done,  she  fell  promptly 
in  love  with  this  charming  old  sailor. 

The  talk  naturally  enough  turned  upon  Richard's 
adventure,  and  his  mother  could  not  say  enough  in 
her  endeavor  to  express  her  gratitude  and  thankfulness 
for  his  rescue.  The  servant  had  announced  that  Miss 
Emily  would  be  out  presently,  and  the  two  women 
waited  with  unconcealed  interest  for  her  appearance. 

Some  natural  anxiety  filled  the  heart  of  Revere. 
He  had  no  doubt  as  to  the  qualities  of  the  woman  he 
loved,  but  he  wondered  how  she  would  strike  his 
mother.  She  certainly  was  not  like  the  young  Boston 
women  of  his  mother's  social  circle.  Just  as  high 
bred  as,  and,  in  his  mind,  infinitely  more  beautiful 
than,  Josephine  Remington,  yet  she  was  of  so  entirely 
different  a  type  that  he  could  not  restrain  some  mis- 
givings. Of  course  he  meant  to  marry  Emily  under 
any  circumstances,  and  he  had  no  fear,  in  spite  of  the 
quarrel  which  had  temporarily  overcast  their  happi- 
ness, but  that  she  would  marry  him  as  well ;  but  he 
was  the  only  son  of  his  mother,  and  it  would  be 
pleasanter  all  around  if  she  should  be  attracted  to 
Emily  and  be  willing  to  welcome  her  within  the  pre- 
cincts of  her  exclusive  family. 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

He  could  see  that  she  was  delighted  with  the  ad- 
miral, as,  indeed,  who  could  fail  to  be  ?  When  the  old 
man  informed  her  that  he  had  known  her  husband's 
father  intimately,  and  that  the  old  commodore  had 
cruised  with  him  when  he  was  a  lieutenant ;  and  when 
he  said  pleasant  things  about  the  commodore,  who 
was  deservedly  held  in  high  esteem  in  the  family,  and 
told  her  some  charming  little  anecdotes  illustrating 
his  courage  and  ability,  her  heart  was  quite  won. 

The  moments  passed  in  pleasant  conversation, 
therefore,  until  the  quick  ear  of  Richard  recognized  a 
light  footfall  in  the  hall.  The  door  opened  and  Emily 
stepped  out  on  the  porch.  With  the  bright  sunlight 
of  the  afternoon  falling  upon  her  as  she  stood,  clad  in 
a  simple  white  dress,  against  the  dark  background  of 
the  closed  room,  seen  through  the  door-way,  she  made 
so  charming  a  picture  of  virginal  loveliness  that  he 
could  scarcely  repress  a  cry  of  admiration  and  delight. 

At  the  sound  of  the  opening  of  the  door,  Mrs. 
Revere  turned  and  critically  surveyed  the  girl  through 
her  lorgnette,  and  criticism  at  once  gave  place  to  ap- 
probation. The  admiral  instantly  rose,  and  as  Emily 
diffidently  stepped  toward  him, — poor  girl,  it  was 
quite  an  ordeal  to  her,  this  meeting, — he  took  her 
by  the  hand  and  presented  her  in  due  and  ancient 
form  to  his  two  guests,  bowing  low,  with  the  grace 
of  a  finished  gentleman  in  spite  of  his  age,  as  he 
did  so. 

The  dress  the  girl  wore,  while  of  the  finest  mate- 
rial, was  decidedly  old-fashioned  in  its  cut, — a  fact 
both  women  had  been  quick  to  notice ;  but  when 


RIVALS  MEETING 

she  accompanied  the  admiral's  bow  by  involuntarily 
dropping  a  sweeping  courtesy,  after  a  fashion  much 
older  than  her  dress,  which  went  back  almost  to  the 
days  of  her  grandfather's  uniform,  in  fact, — for  he 
had  taught  her  how  to  do  it, — the  effect  was  alto- 
gether charming.  A  little  exclamation  broke  from 
the  lips  of  the  older  woman.  The  lorgnette  dropped 
from  her  hand,  and,  instead  of  shaking  hands  formally, 
as  she  had  anticipated,  Mrs.  Revere  rose  and  took 
the  girl  in  her  arms. 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  "how  can  I  thank  you  for 
saving  my  boy's  life  ?  Why,  I  cannot  believe  that  you 
did  it !  You  do  not  look — you  are  so — forgive  an  old 
woman — so  daintily  beautiful,  I  don't  understand 
where  you  got  the  strength  to " 

"She  did  it,  though,  mother,"  interrupted  Richard, 
joyfully,  delighted  at  the  turn  of  affairs. 

"And  she  did  it  well,"  added  the  admiral,  proudly  ; 
"no  one  could  have  done  it  better." 

"It  was  nothing,  madam,"  said  Emily,  blushing  at 
these  tributes  ;  "  I  mean — Captain  Barry  did  the  most 
of  it — did  it  all,  in  fact.  I  only  steered  the  boat 
and  held  on  to — Mr.  Revere.  Anybody  could  have 
done  it" 

"  Nobody  but  you  did,  though,"  said  Richard, 
promptly  ;  "  and  if  you  had  not  been  here,  Miss  Emily, 
I  should  have  ended  all  my  cruising  then." 

"  I  think  it  was  a  most  splendid  action,  Miss  San- 
ford,"  said  Josephine,  warmly,  "  and  as  an  old  friend 
of  Richard  I  want  to  thank  you,  too." 

"And   this   Captain  Barry  of  whom  you  spoke," 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

asked  Mrs.  Revere.      "Where  is  he  ?    I  should  like  to 
thank  him  also.     Who  is  he?" 

"Just  a  common  sailor,  madam,  a  bo's'n's  mate, 
long  attached  to  my  fortunes,  and  his  father  before 
him.  Worthy  men,  both,"  answered  the  admiral. 
"  He  has  been  busy  with  the  ship  all  day,  but  you 
will  see  him  presently,  doubtless.  He  has  been  trying 
to  patch  the  old  hulk  up  so  that  it  may  last  a  little 
longer.  He  watches  over  it  as  he  watches  over  me — 
and  my  granddaughter.  I  sometimes  think  the  ship 
and  he  and  I  will  go  together,  and  I  have  been  greatly 
anxious  as  to  what  would  become  of  this  child  then." 

Mrs.  Revere  was  not  given  to  impulsive  action. 
She  was  generally  very  self-contained,  and  usually 
carefully  considered  what  she  said  before  she  spoke, 
but  on  this  occasion  she  answered  instantly, — 

"  Your  granddaughter  will  never  want  a  friend  so 
long  as  I  live,  admiral,  and  I  shall  be  happy,  indeed, 
if  I  can  repay  some  of  the  debt  I  owe  her  for  Richard 
in  that  way." 

"Mother,"  said  Richard,  "I  have  something  to  say 
to  you.  Admiral,  you  will  pardon  me  if  I  ask  Miss 
Emily  to  take  Miss  Josephine  into  the  house  for  a  few 
moments?  No,  sir;  don't  you  go,  please,"  he  con- 
tinued, as  the  admiral  made  a  motion  to  rise  ;  "  I 
want  you  to  hear,  too." 

"  Certainly,  certainly,  my  lad.  Emily,  show  Miss 
Remington  the  treasures  of  your  room,  the  model  of 
the  Susquehanna " 

"And  the  sword  of  the  Constitution"  interrupted 
Richard  ;  ''that  is  the  rarest  treasure  of  them  all." 

156 


RIVALS  MEETING 

"Come,  then,  Miss  Remington,"  said  Emily,  ex- 
tending her  hand  to  Josephine,  "since  we  are  dis- 
missed." 

Josephine  instantly  divined  the  meaning  of  Richard's 
request.  She  shot  a  glance  at  him  of  mingled  amuse- 
ment and  annoyance,  and  found  time  to  whisper  as 
she  passed  him  standing  by  the  door,  which  he  had 
opened  for  them, — 

"  You  do  love  her,  then  ?  Traitor !  Well,  I  do  not 
wonder." 

This  was  certainly  magnanimous  in  her,  yet  she 
was  not  particularly  happy  over  the  situation.  Not 
that  she  loved  Revere,  but  a  woman  never  forgives  the 
defection  of  an  old  admirer.  Although  she  may  have 
been  married  for  twenty  years,  when  her  sometime 
lover  follows  her  example,  she  always  feels  that  it  is 
an  evidence  of  masculine  depravity  and  disloyalty. 

However,  Josephine  could  not  justly  reproach  him 
in  view  of  her  declared  affection  for  Charles  Van  Dorn. 
Yet  he  might  have  had  the  decency  to  wait  a  little 
longer,  she  thought,  somewhat  bitterly,  as  she  left  the 
porch.  She  was  a  generous  girl,  though,  and  had  a 
good  heart.  When  they  were  alone,  she  slipped  her 
arm  around  Emily's  waist,  which  was  an  unusual  and 
remarkable  familiarity  under  any  circumstances  on 
her  part,  and  whispered  in  her  ear, — 

"Tell  me,  do  you  love  him  very  much?" 

"I — we  quarrelled  a  few  minutes  ago  about " 

"About  me,  I'll  warrant,"  shrewdly. 

"Yes,"  shamefacedly. 

"You  knew  he  was  engaged  to  me,  then?" 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

"Yes;  he  told  me  so." 

"And  you  knew  the  engagement  was  broken  this 
morning?" 

"Yes,  but " 

"  Well,  there  is  nothing  to  quarrel  about.  Tell  me, 
now,  honestly,  do  you  love  him  very  much?" 

"  More  than  anything  under  the  sun,"  said  Emily, 
burying  her  face  on  Josephine's  shoulder  ;  "don'tyou 
love  him  yourself?" 

"  I  ?  Not  a  bit,"  laughed  the  older  girl.  "  Oh,  I 
mean,  yes,  of  course,  a  great  deal.  I  like  and  admire 
him  immensely ;  but,  you  see,  I  happen  to  love — 
somebody  else." 

"  I  don't  understand  how  you  could  love  anybody 
else  after  having  been  engaged  to  Richard.  Are  you 
sure  you  don't  ?"  ingenuously. 

"  Perfectly  sure,"  complacently. 

"And  you  are  not  giving  him  up  for  my  sake  ?" 

"  Child,  I  had  never  a  thought  of  you  when  I  gave 
him  up.  I  did  it  because  I  loved  somebody  else,  and 
that's  all.  I  would  never  have  done  for  Dick,  any- 
way ;  but  you,  I  think,  will  suit  him  exactly.  I  hope 
you  will  be  very  happy,  I'm  sure." 

"  Do  you  think  his  mother — ?"  anxiously. 

"I'm  sure  of  that,  too,"  answered  Josephine,  re- 
assuringly. "We  are  going  to  be  great  friends,  I 
know." 

"I  never  had  a  friend, — a  girl  friend,  that  is," — re- 
turned Emily  ;  "  I  have  missed  one  so  much.  You 
can't  confide  everything  to  your  grandfather  and  a 
sailor-man  like  Captain  Barry,  you  know." 

158 


RIVALS  MEETING 

"I  should  think  not,"  laughed  Josephine.  "And 
I  shall  be  so  glad  to  be  friends  with  you." 

*'  And  are  you  sure  you  do  not  love  Dick  ?"  doubt- 
fully. 

"  I  am  quite  sure  of  it,"  decidedly. 

"It  is  so  very  hard  for  me  to  believe  that,  you 
know ;  I  do  not  see  how  you  could  help  it," 
innocently. 

"Wait  until  you  sec  Charlie — Mr.  Van  Dorn,  I 
mean." 

"  I  am  sure  that  would  make  no  difference,"  re- 
turned Emily,  confidently. 


159 


CHAPTER   XXI 


A  HAPPY  CONSUMMATION 


<  ~"m  JT OTHER,"  said  Richard,  as  the  three 

^^       /•       were  left  alone,  "I  will  be  entirely 
^^  /  brief  and  frank  with   you.     I    love 

^r  Emily  Sanford.     It  is  a  sudden  feel- 

ing, I  grant  you,  but  I  am  sure  none 
the  less  deep  and  abiding  for  that  I  have  reason  to 
think  that  she  loves  me  as  well.  This  morning,  after 
I  came  back  from  the  inn,  freed  from  the  engage- 
ment by  Josephine's  own  act,  I  asked  the  admiral  if 
he  would  give  her  to  me." 

"  I  said,  madam,"  interrupted  the  admiral,  with 
natural  pride,  "  that  I  would  not  withhold  my  con- 
sent provided  the  match  were  agreeable  to  yourself. 
I  have  reared  and  educated  my  granddaughter  prin- 
cipally myself,  and,  naturally,  she  lacks  many  things 
which,  I  trust,  she  may  easily  acquire  upon  the  good 
foundation  I  have  endeavored  to  give  her ;  but  she 
has  lived  in  an  atmosphere  of  love  and  devotion 
in  this  house,  and  I  would  not  have  her  an  unwel- 
come intruder  in  any  family.  As  to  her  family, 
madam,  it  is  my  own,  and  I  think,"  he  added  with 
simple  dignity,  "  that  there  is  none  better  in  the  Re- 
public. She  will  not  come  to  your  son  portionless — 

160 


A  HAPPY  CONSUMMATION 

there  is  a  tidy  little  fortune  for  her  after  I  am  gone, 
and  that  will  be  soon,  certainly.  Of  her  personal 
qualities  I  may  not  speak.  She  is  most  dear  to  me. 
For  the  last  twenty  years  of  my  life  she  has  been 
everything  to  me.  No  one  could  have  a  more  duti- 
ful child,  nor  one  sweeter  and  more  tender.  She  has 
been  the  sunshine  and  joy  of  my  old  age.  I  can 
scarcely  bear  to  think  for  a  moment  that  she  should 
leave  me,  but  it  is  a  matter  of  a  short  time  only.  The 
old  ship  and  I  are  ready  to  go,  and  yet  I  would  fain 
see  her  provided  for  before." 

"Admiral  Stewart,"  said  Mrs.  Revere,  gravely, 
"you  touch  me  profoundly.  I  divined  that  things 
might  be  as  you  say  when  I  saw  your  granddaughter. 
The  marriage  of  a  son  is  always  a  grief  to  a  mother," 
she  continued,  somewhat  sadly.  "  She  feels  that,  in  a 
certain  sense,  she  will  be  supplanted  in  her  boy's 
heart,  and  I  have  long  accustomed  myself  to  think  of 
another  wife  for  Richard  ;  but  of  her  own  will  she 
has  given  him  his  freedom.  I  thought  it  would  be  a 
grief  to  my  son,  but  I  find  that  it  is  a  joy.  Is  it 
not  so,  Richard  ?" 

"  Yes,  mother,  the  greatest  joy,  almost,  that  ever 
came  to  me,  except  loving  Emily." 

"  Very  well.  Admiral  Stewart,  I  never  had  a  little 
girl.  God  has  given  me  but  this,  my  son.  I  will  re- 
ceive Emily  gladly.  She  shall  be  to  me  a  daughter, 
indeed,  and  I  will  endeavor  to  be  to  her  a  mother." 

"Emily!  Josephine!"  called  Richard,  instantly, 
stepping  into  the  hall.  "Come  here  !" 

The  deep  satisfaction  in  his  heart  spoke  in  the 
11  161 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  .  SHIP 

tones  of  his  voice.  Emily  and  Josephine  compre- 
hended it  well.  As  the  two  girls  came  on  the  porch, 
Mrs.  Revere  again  took  the  younger  in  her  arms. 

"  My  dear  child,"  she  said,  with  kindly  affection, 
"  I  learn  that  you  are  going  to  be  my  daughter.  I 
am  very  glad.  In  fact,"  she  added,  drawing  back  her 
head  and  looking  at  the  girl  approvingly,  "  the  more 
I  see  of  you,  I  believe  the  more  pleased  I  shall  be." 

"  I  congratulate  you,  Richard,"  said  Josephine, 
"  and  I  do  it  honestly,  too.  Emily  and  I  are  destined 
to  be  great  friends,  I  am  sure." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Revere,"  said  Emily,  her  eyes  filled 
with  tears,  she  could  not  tell  exactly  why,  ' '  you  have 
made  me  so  happy  !  I  know  I  have  many  things  to 
learn,  but  with  you  to  teach  me  and  Mr.  Revere  to 
help  me " 

"And  me,  too,"  interrupted  Josephine;  "don't 
forget  me !" 

"  Yes,  and  you,  I  am  sure  I  shall  learn,  and  I  shall 
try  very  hard  to  be  what  you  want  me  to  be  and  what 
I  ought  to  be." 

"  Be  your  own  sweet  self,  dear,"  said  the  older  lady, 
patting  her  approvingly,  "  and  you  will  do." 

"  Emily,  bring  me  the  sword  of  the  Constitution," 
said  the  admiral.  "Richard,  lad,  I  give  it  to  you," 
he  added,  as  it  was  handed  to  him  by  the  girl.  "  May 
you  wear  it  always  in  defence  of  our  beloved  country, 
holding  it  ever  at  her  service,  defending  the  honor  of 
her  flag.  After  Emily  it  is  my  chiefest  treasure, 
young  sir.  It  has  gone  with  me  on  many  a  cruise.  I 
have  worn  it,  not  without  some  honor,  too,  in  battles 

162 


A  HAPPY  CONSUMMATION 

and  on  dangerous  service.  I  give  it  gladly  into  your 
hands,  as  I  give  you  Emily.  I  know  you  will  wear 
the  one  honorably  and  treat  the  other  lovingly.  When 
you  look  upon  it,  when  your  children  gather  about 
your  knee  and  marvel  at  its  quaintness,  mark  the  rude- 
ness of  the  hilt  in  contrast  to  its  jewelled  scabbard 
and  brilliant  blade,  tell  them  of  me,  who  shall  never 
see  them.  Tell  them  the  story  of  '  Old  Ironsides1 
and  the  last  of  the  fighting  captains  of  the  Consti- 
tution." 

"Sir,"  said  Revere,  as  the  old  man  solemnly  pressed 
his  lips  to  the  iron  guard  and  extended  the  sword  to 
him,  "  I  take  it  as  a  knight  of  old  received  the  acco- 
lade ;  and,  as  the  men  of  the  past  did,  I  swear  upon 
the  hilt  of  the  sword  that  I  will  be  everything  a  man 
ought  to  be  to  a  woman,  to  your  granddaughter, — 
and  more." 

At  this  moment  Revere's  man  rode  up  to  the  porch, 
dismounted,  touched  his  hat,  and  held  out  a  letter, 
reporting, — 

"  I  did  not  find  them,  sir." 

"They  are  here,  Baker.  I'll  take  the  letter.  Say 
nothing  about  it  to  any  one,  and  then  go  back  to  the 
inn  and  arrange  to  bring  the  trunks  of  the  two  ladies 
over  here." 

Revere  had  descended  to  the  foot  of  the  steps  to 
meet  the  man,  and  he  had  spoken  softly  when  refer- 
ring to  the  letter,  so  that  all  the  party  on  the  porch 
heard  of  the  colloquy  was  the  direction  about  the 
baggage.  Nor  had  any  of  them,  except  Emily,  seen 
the  man  hand  him  the  letter.  With  it  in  his  hand, 

163 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

Revere  walked  up  the  steps  and  handed  it  to  his  be- 
trothed without  a  word.  A  glance  told  her  that  it 
was  addressed  to  Josephine  Remington,  and  Emily 
understood  instantly  that  it  was  the  famous  letter  about 
which  they  had  quarrelled. 

What  should  she  do  was  in  her  mind  ;  what  would 
she  do  in  his.  Her  temptation  was  strong.  It  would 
have  been  a  triumph  to  have  handed  the  letter  over 
to  Josephine  at  once.  She  hesitated  for  a  few  seconds, 
and,  choosing  the  greater  triumph,  thrust  it  quietly 
into  the  bosom  of  her  dress.  She  had  decided  not 
to  give  it  to  Josephine,  after  all,  so  Revere  read  her 
smiling  gesture,  and  in  the  same  mute,  eloquent  way 
he  thanked  her  for  her  forbearance. 

"  Who  is  this  coming  up  the  path?"  said  Josephine, 
tactfully,  breaking  the  pause  which  threatened  to  be- 
come an  awkward  one,  and  pointing  to  the  brow  of 
the  hill. 

"It  is  Captain  Barry,"  answered  Emily,  glad  of  the 
interruption. 

"  The  old  sailor  of  whom  I  spoke  to  you,  madam," 
said  the  admiral,  turning  to  Mrs.  Revere. 

"The  man  who  rowed  the  boat  the  night  Emily 
pulled  me  out  of  the  water,  mother,"  Revere  ex- 
plained. 

"  My  man,"  said  Mrs.  Revere,  graciously,  as  Barry 
stopped  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  and  saluted,  "  I  have 
to  thank  you  for  a  great  deal,  I  understand.  It  was 
your  strength  and  determination,  coupled  with  this 
young  lady's  skill,  that  saved  the  life  of  my  son.  I 
owe  you  much,  sir." 

164 


A  HAPPY  CONSUMMATION 

"You  owe  me  nothing,  ma'am,"  said  Barry,  un- 
graciously. "I  only  obeyed  Miss  Emily's  orders. 
What  she  says,  I  do.  I  always  do." 

"Nevertheless,  you  did  it,"  continued  Mrs.  Revere, 
struck  by  his  harsh  words  and  repellent  manner,  but 
trying  to  suppress  her  astonishment  and  be  kind  to 
this  strange  old  man,  "  and  I  feel  deeply  grateful.  Is 
there  any  way  in  which  I  can  show  it  ?" 

"No  way,  ma'am,"  burst  out  the  sailor,  almost 
rudely. 

He  hated  the  whole  brood, — mother,  son,  friend,  all 
of  them,  it  seemed: 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  Captain  Barry?" 
gently  asked  Emily,  who  had  been  scrutinizing  the 
man's  pale,  haggard  face,  his  bloodshot  eyes,  his 
utterly  despairing,  broken,  yet  firmly  resolute  look. 
She,  too,  had  been  surprised  and  deeply  pained  by 
his  words  and  actions. 

"  Nothin',  Miss  Emily,"  he  answered,  turning  toward 
her,  his  face  working  with  emotion  he  vainly  strove  to 
control ;  "  nothin'.  I — Miss  Emily — the  ship " 

"What  of  the  ship?"  cried  the  'admiral,  suddenly. 

"  It's  almost  gone,  your  honor.  I  came  to  ask  the 
leftenant  to  go  down  with  me  an'  take  another  look 
at  it." 

"Certainly,  Barry,"  cried  Richard,  springing  to  his 
feet,  eager  to  do  anything  for  the  old  man,  and  anx- 
ious to  terminate  a  scene  painful  to  all  of  them, 
although  he  could  not  tell  why.  "  I  shall  be  back  in 
a  few  moments,  Emily,  mother.  Good-by.  Come 
along,  man,"  he  said,  striding  lightly  down  the  path. 

165 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

But  Barry  lingered  in  apparent  reluctance  at  the 
foot  of  the  steps.  He  seemed  wistful  to  say  some- 
thing, but  words  failed  him.  He  turned  to  go, 
stopped,  faced  about  again. 

"  The  ship,"  he  said,  hoarsely  ;  "  I'm  afraid  it's  gone. 
Good-by,  your  honor.  Good-by,  Miss  Emily,"  he 
added,  hoarsely,  and  then  he  turned  again  with  a  ges- 
ture and  a  movement  which  gave  to  all  who  were  so 
intently  watching  him  the  impression  that  he  was 
somehow  breaking  away  from  his  moorings,  and 
walked  rapidly  down  the  hill. 

"The  ship  !  the  ship  !"  murmured  the  admiral,  ob- 
livious of  all  the  rest,  leaning  forward  in  his  chair  over 
the  rail  of  the  porch  and  gazing  at  the  vessel. 

His  hand  grasped  the  hilt  of  the  sword  of  the 
Constitution,  which  Richard  had  handed  back  to  him 
as  he  left.  Emily  stepped  over  to  his  side  and  stood 
there  with  her  arm  around  his  neck.  They  waited  in 
silence  a  little,  a  foreboding  of  disaster  stealing  over 
them. 

"I  wonder,"  she  said,  presently,  in  tones  of  great 
anxiety,  "what  the  matter  can  be  ?  I  am  afraid  it  is 
something  serious.  I  never  knew  Captain  Barry  so 
agitated." 

"It's  the  end,  daughter,  the  end.  I  feel  it  here," 
murmured  the  old  man,  staring  before  him. 

"  Grandfather,  if  you  don't  mind,  I  think  I  will  go 
down  to  the  ship,"  said  Emily;  "I'm  so  anxious." 

"Don't  go  too  near  it,  child,"  said  the  old  man; 
"one  life  is  enough  for  the  ship." 

"Shall  I  go  with  you?"  asked  Josephine,  noticing 
166 


A  HAPPY  CONSUMMATION 

how  pale  and  worried  Emily  looked,  and  feeling 
somewhat  alarmed  herself. 

"  Go,  both  of  you,  and  I  will  stay  with  the  admiral. 
Look  to  Richard,"  said  Mrs.  Revere,  apprehensively, 
sure  now  that  something  was  seriously  wrong. 

Poor  Emily  was  in  two  minds  about  the  matter. 
She  wished  to  remain  with  the  old  man,  and  yet, 
when  she  thought  of  Revere  on  that  ship  with  Cap- 
tain Barry,  and  how  strangely,  how  madly,  almost 
insanely,  the  sailor  had  looked,  her  heart  smote  her 
with  undefined  terror  of  she  knew  not  what. 

She  must  go  !     It  might  be  too  late  already ! 

The  two  girls  ran  swiftly  toward  the  ship  in  vague 
but  rapidly  increasing  fear. 


167 


CHAPTER     XXII 


"SAMSON  AGONISTES" 


Aevere  and  Barry  walked  down  the  hill 
the  soul  of  the  younger  man  was  filled 
with    light-hearted    joy.      He    talked 
gayly    to    the    old    sailor,    who    had 
speedily  joined  him  ;  and  although  the 
monologue — since  Barry  had  said  nothing — could  not 
have  been    called   a  conversation,   Richard   did   not 
heed  his  silence. 

It  was  but  a  short  distance  from  the  house  to 
the  ship,  but  in  the  brief  time  required  for  the 
passage  Barry  lived  over  his  life,  or  that  part  of 
it  at  least  which  was  of  moment.  As  life  is  com- 
passed in  instants  to  the  drowning,  so  in  these  seconds 
through  his  mental  vision  swept  the  past.  He  saw 
again  the  admiral  as  he  had  seen  him  in  the  prime  of 
manhood ;  he  recalled  once  more  the  blue-eyed, 
sunny  little  baby  he  had  held  so  tenderly  in  his  un- 
familiar arms ;  who,  in  the  society  of  the  two  men, 
had  grown  to  be  a  woman  whom  he  loved.  The 
days  and  years  of  happy  companionship,  of  humble 
and  faithful  service  on  the  one  hand,  of  kind  and 
generous  recognition  on  the  other,  passed  before  him 
with  incredible  swiftness. 

168 


"SAMSON  AGONISTES" 

The  thought  moved  him  to  a  sudden  tenderness. 
As  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  gay,  debonair  figure  walking 
so  carelessly  by  his  side,  he  hesitated.  For  a  moment 
his  determination  wavered.  Revere  did  not  look  or 
act  like  a  scoundrel,  perhaps ;  but  with  equal  swift- 
ness came  the  terrible  evidence  of  those  papers,  those 
damning  papers  in  the  locker  !  The  ship,  the  maiden  ! 
The  one  was  to  be  sold,  the  other  betrayed.  Under 
God,  that  should  never  be  !  And  he  had  kissed  her. 
He  was  bound  to  another.  And  she  loved  him  and 
had  wept  before  him.  This  trifler  was  breaking  her 
heart. 

Every  laugh  that  rang  in  his  ears  in  his  changed 
mood  added  intensity  to  his  malign  purpose.  He  was 
no  murderer,  though.  He  believed  himself  a  chosen 
instrument  in  God's  hand  to  effect  a  mighty  pur- 
pose,— salvation  to  those  he  loved. 

Alas  !  humanity  is  never  so  hopelessly  blind  as  when 
it  does  wrong,  believing  that  God  sanctions  it  for 
some  longed-for  end. 

The  two  men  stopped  as  they  reached  the  ship. 

"It's  just  here,  sir,"  said  the  old  sailor,  hoarsely. 
"  I've  been  examinin'  her  all  mornin'.  The  supports 
is  rottin'  away.  I  think  a  touch' 11  send  her  down. 
Would  you  mind  goin'  in  there  an'  takin'  a  look?" 

He  pointed  toward  a  place  on  the  keel  enclosed 
between  two  rows  of  weather-worn  timbers,  which 
supported,  or  helped  to  support,  the  body  of  the  ship. 
It  was  the  place  where,  the  night  before,  he  and 
Emily  had  pledged  their  hearts  to  each  other  and 
solemnly  plighted  their  troth.  Revere  recognized 

169 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

the  spot,  of  course,  with  a  thrill  of  recollection  ;  but 
of  course  he  made  no  mention  of  the  fact.  Barry 
knew  it,  however,  and  for  that  reason  he  had  chosen 
it.  The  choice  was  part  of  his  revenge.  Where 
Revere  had  loved — or  trifled — there  he  should  die  ! 

"Looks  bad,  doesn't  it?"  Revere  said,  walking 
into  the  cul-de-sac  so  carefully  prepared  for  him,  and 
stooping  down  and  laying  his  ringer  on  the  moulder- 
ing keel. 

Barry  promptly  followed  him  and  stood  between  the 
outermost  stanchions,  barring  the  exit.  The  uncon- 
scious Revere  was  completely  enclosed.  The  keel  on 
the  rotting  ways  was  in  front  of  him,  on  either  side  the 
close  rows  of  supports,  overhead  the  mighty  floor  of 
the  ship,  back  of  him  the  huge  form  of  Captain 
Barry.  He  suspected  nothing,  however, — how  should 
he  ? — until  he  turned  to  go  back  after  his  brief  exam- 
ination, when  he  was  greatly  surprised  to  find  the  way 
blocked. 

His  situation  beneath  the  ship  was  such  that  he 
could  not  even  stand  upright,  but  was  forced  to  re- 
main in  a  crouching  position  of  great  disadvantage 
before  the  sailor.  The  old  man  stood  with  his  arms 
extended  from  stanchion  to  stanchion,  a  perfect  tower 
of  strength  and  determination.  It  was  useless  for 
Revere,  even  if  he  had  realized  at  that  moment  what 
was  about  to  happen,  to  attempt  to  move  him  by 
force.  In  his  weakened  state  he  could  do  nothing. 
Even  at  his  best  he  was  no  match  for  the  huge  old 
giant  barring  his  way. 

The  old  man's  face  was  engorged  with  blood,  his 
170 


"SAMSON  AGONISTES" 

jaw  was  set  rigidly,  and  a  little  fleck  of  foam  hung 
upon  his  nether  lip.  There  was  such  a  glare  of  de- 
moniac rage  in  his  eyes,  such  an  expression  of  mortal 
bitterness  and  malevolent  antipathy  in  his  grim  and 
forbidding  countenance,  that  the  heart  of  the  young 
man,  though  he  was  as  brave  a  sailor  as  ever  trod  a 
deck,  sank  within  him.  He  was  fairly  appalled  by 
this  display  of  sinister  and  unsuspected  passion. 

"My  God,  man!"  cried  Revere.  "What's  the 
matter?  Stand  aside  !" 

"No,  sir,  you  can't  pass  me.  I'll  never  stand 
aside.  Say  a  prayer,  for,  as  there's  a  ship  above  you 
an'  a  God  that  favors  no  traitors,  your  hour  is  come." 

His  usually  rough  voice,  harsher  than  ever  on  ac- 
count of  his  emotion,  was  shaking  with  passion. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"  I  mean  to  kill  you  where  you  stand,  where  you 
kissed  her  last  night,  you  traitor,  you  dog,  you  that 
disgraces  your  uniform,  you  that  sells  my  ship,  mine ! 
You  that  robs  the  old  admiral  of  life,  that  betrays 
Miss  Emily,  that  breaks  her  heart !  You  thought  to 
play  with  that  child.  But  I  know  you  !  I  found 
your  orders.  I  read  'em,  curse  you  !  To  sell  the 
ship, — God  !  my  ship,  that  I've  lived  on,  that  I've 
loved,  for  twenty-five  years !  I  read  your  letters 
writ  by  that  woman  you're  goin'  to  marry!  I  saw 
you  kiss  Miss  Emily,  I  saw  her  go  from  you  cryin'  ! 
Tears  for  you,  damn  you  !  You've  got  to  die,  an' 
I'll  die  with  you  !  You'll  have  the  company  of  a 
better  man  to  hell,  where  you  belong !" 

The  old  man's  voice  rose  almost  to  a  scream  as  he 
171 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

recounted  the  ideas  which  had  goaded  him  to  this 
madness.  The  torrential  sentences  of  the  grim  indict- 
ment fairly  burst  from  his  lips  with  ever-increasing 
force  and  fury.  Revere  heard  him  in  a  daze  of 
surprise,  at  first  scarcely  comprehending  the  man's 
meaning ;  yet,  after  all,  his  words  explained  many 
things.  As  soon  as  the  lieutenant  found  voice  he 
protested. 

"Barry,  I  swear  to  you " 

"Silence !     It's  too  late  to  swear!" 

Revere  was  brave  ;  he  fain  would  not  die  without  a 
struggle  for  his  life.  Indeed,  he  had  not  divined  the 
manner  of  his  death  ;  but  before  he  could  spring  for- 
ward, Barry,  as  if  he  understood  what  he  was  about 
to  do,  said,  ruthlessly, — 

"Stand  where  you  are!  If  you  move,  I'll  kick 
you  to  death  like  a  dog  !" 

He  could  easily  have  done  it,  as  the  advantage  of 
position  was  with  him.  Rather  anything  than  that, 
thought  Revere,  shuddering  at  the  brutality  of  it. 
A  prisoner,  he  could  do  nothing.  The  man  was 
mad.  If  he  chose  to  carry  out  his  purpose,  what- 
ever it  might  be,  the  young  man  was  helpless. 

"Very  well,  Barry,"  he  said,  instantly  accepting 
the  situation,  and  summoning  all  his  resolution  to 
meet  the  inevitable,  though  his  cheeks  and  lips  were 
white,  "you  saved  my  life  once,  you  may  take  it 
back  now.  I  wish  I  could  die  standing,  but  if  I 
cannot,  why  kneeling  is  as  good  a  way  as  any  for 
a  man  to  meet  his  Maker.  You  tell  me  to  say  a 
prayer.  Here  it  is.  May  God  have  mercy  on  your 

172 


"SAMSON  AGONISTES" 

soul  and  on  my  soul,  and  may  He  keep  the  child. 
That's  all." 

Not  moving  from  his  position,  the  old  man  began 
kicking  at  the  stanchions.  The  one  on  the  right  was 
defective,  and  gave  way  and  fell  at  the  first  blow.  A 
shiver  seemed  to  run  through  the  ship  ;  Richard,  for 
the  first  time,  divined  what  was  about  to  happen. 
He  looked  forward  and  aft  The  effective  supports 
were  all  gone  ;  some  rotten  ones  remained,  outwardly 
intact,  but  bound  to  go  under  almost  any  pressure ; 
the  few  sound  ones  left  had  been  carefully  sawed 
almost  through.  Why  had  he  not  noticed  it  ?  The 
whole  ship,  therefore,  practically  rested  on  a  single 
stout  stanchion  toward  which  Barry  had  already 
turned.  It  was  a  splendid  piece  of  timber,  and  Barry 
had  put  it  in  himself  a  year  before.  When  that  came 
down,  the  ship  would  crash  into  ruins  and  bury  them 
beneath  it. 

As  the  prop  upon  the  right  had  fallen,  the  hope 
leaped  into  his  mind  that  he  might  get  away  through 
the  gap  ;  but  Barry  reached  down  and  grasped  him 
by  the  collar  with  one  hand  the  instant  the  way  was 
open,  and  held  him  firmly  while  he  turned  his  at- 
tention to  the  other  stanchion.  It  was  hopeless  for 
Revere  to  attempt  anything. 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  there  was  a  certain  admira- 
tion for  the  sailor  in  Revere's  mind,  even  in  that 
frightful  moment.  He  realized  that  the  attack  upon 
him  was  not  inspired  by  any  petty  cause.  Given  the 
belief  of  the  sailor,  it  was  natural ;  he  respected  him 
for  his  desire  to  stop  what  he  believed  to  be  base 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

treachery ;  and  Revere  could  have  loved  him  for  his 
willingness  to  sacrifice  himself  to  prevent  what  he 
conceived  to  be  a  crime  against  the  life  of  the  admiral, 
the  happiness  of  Emily,  and  the  existence  of  the  ship. 

"  Barry,"  said  Revere,  calmly, — he  was  quite  mas- 
ter of  himself  now, — as  the  old  man  struck  the  last 
sound  support  a  heavy  blow  with  his  foot,  "  I  must 
tell  you,  not  because  I  am  afraid  to  die,  or  because 
I  fear  you,  but  to  acquit  myself  of  evil  purpose  in 
your  mind,  that  my  engagement  with  that  other 
woman  is  broken ;  that  not  an  hour  ago,  in  my 
mother's  presence,  the  admiral  promised  to  give  me 
his  granddaughter  to  be  my  wife." 

"The  ship?"  cried  Barry,  hoarsely,  as  he  felt  his 
vengeance  slipping  away  from  him,  the  cause  itself 
being  taken. 

"  I  offered  to  buy  it  myself  and  leave  it  standing 
until  it  fell." 

Men  do  not  often  lie  in  the  very  presence  of  death, 
and  truth  spoke  in  the  younger  man's  voice, — truth 
so  clear  that  it  pierced  the  tortured  soul  of  the  jeal- 
ous, mad,  broken  sailor.  But,  like  many  another  man 
convinced  against  his  will,  he  refused  to  accept  these 
statements.  It  was  a  device,  a  cunning  attempt  to 
stay  his  hand  and  gain  a  life.  He  would  not  heed. 

"I  don't  believe  you,  damn  you!"  he  said,  kicking 
furiously  at  the  stanchion. 

The  last  blow  loosened  it.  Under  the  tremendous 
pressure  from  above,  the  stick  began  slowly,  very 
slowly,  to  slide  on  its  wooden  shoe.  Its  motion  was 
scarcely  perceptible,  yet  it  moved.  Barry  released 

174 


"  SAMSON  AGONISTES" 

his  hold  on  it,  took  a  single  backward  step,  and 
Revere  rose  to  his  feet.  Barry  instantly  grappled 
him  with  both  hands.  Revere  was  as  a  child  in  that 
iron  grasp.  He  did  not  struggle.  He  would  preserve 
his  dignity  in  the  face  of  death,  and  to  attempt  to 
escape  would  have  been  futile,  anyway.  The  two 
faces  confronted  one  another,  the  sailor's  convulsed 
with  anguish  and  rage,  the  officer's  pale,  but  smiling 
a  little  ;  both  equally  determined. 

Forward  and  aft  the  rotten  or  sawed  supports  were 
giving  way  in  quick  succession.  Above  them  the 
ship  was  trembling  and  shivering  from  stem  to  stern. 
A  strange  creaking  was  heard.  A  moaning  cry, 
swelling  into  a  deep  groan  of  anguish  that  had  a 
sound  of  despair  unspeakable  in  it.  The  death-song 
of  the  ship  !  It  was  coming  down  on  the  ways ! 
Moving  toward  the  water  at  last ! 

Fascinated,  Revere  turned  his  face  upward  and 
watched  the  shivering  frame  above  his  head,  mur- 
muring, as  he  did  so,  Emily's  name.  The  huge  bulk 
seemed  to  rise  in  the  air  for  a  second.  To  his  dis- 
torted vision  it  appeared  to  sway  back  and  forth,  up 
and  down,  yet  it  had  scarcely  begun  to  move. 

Ah  !  was  it  upon  them  ? 

It  all  happened  in  a  few  seconds.  In  another  it 
would  be  over.  Revere  closed  his  eyes. 

At  that  instant  a  scream  fraught  with  terrible 
agony  broke  upon  the  ears  of  the  two  men. 

"The  ship  is  falling!"  cried  Emily's  voice,  high- 
pitched,  shrill  with  mortal  terror.  "  Richard  !  What 
are  you  doing  ?  Oh,  God  !  Captain  Barry,  save  him  !" 

J75 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

"Would  that  she  might  have  been  spared  this!" 
flashed  into  Revere's  mind.  He  would  have  called 
to  her  had  not  something  happened  instantly. 

The  voice  awakened  the  dormant  reason  in  the 
old  man's  being.  She  loved  this  boy ;  perhaps  he 
had  told  the  truth. 

"Save  him!  save  him!" 

The  words  rang  in  his  ears.  He  had  never  dis- 
obeyed a  command  of  hers.  He  would  not  now. 
Too  late  !  There  was  a  terrible  grating  sound  ;  the 
last  stanchion  was  grinding  in  its  wooden  shoe  ;  it  was 
sliding  faster !  In  another  moment  the  ship  would 
be  upon  them !  He  had  turned  his  head  as  the  first 
cry  had  met  his  ear,  and  had  seen  in  one  swift  glance 
Emily  and  another  woman  not  a  hundred  feet  away. 
Emily  was  bending  forward,  her  hands  outstretched, 
struggling.  She  would  have  run  to  them  under  the 
ship  had  not  the  other  woman  held  her  firmly, 
protectingly.  Both  girls  were  white  as  death. 

Barry  seized  Revere  by  the  collar  and  threw  him 
violently  far  from  him.  The  young  man  pitched 
downward  and  fell  headlong  on  the  grass  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  two  women.  The  ground  sloped  abruptly 
away  toward  the  water  on  that  side  of  the  ship.  In 
that  same  instant  the  sailor  threw  up  two  great  arms 
and  caught  the  impending  ship.  He  took  the  place 
of  the  quivering,  buckling,  sliding  oaken  timber. 
For  a  second  he  stood  there  in  mighty  majesty,  a 
pillar  of  strength  and  resolution,  a  tower  of  flesh  and 
blood,  sustaining  a  ship-of-the-line,  a  human  stanchion, 
magnificent  in  the  frenzied,  awful  expression  of  a 

176 


"  SAMSON  AGONISTES" 

power  superhuman.  Rigid,  unbreakable,  indomitable, 
he  shored  up  the  ship, — Atlas  holding  the  world  ! 

"  Go  !"  he  gasped. 

Revere,  who  had  risen  instantly,  stepped  toward 
him  as  if  to  assist  him. 

"Go!     Can't  hold " 

It  had  come.  Angry  at  the  momentary  check,  the 
ship  fell  upon  the  man  as  an  avalanche  falls  upon 
the  mountain.  Beneath  it  the  mighty  knees  were 
bowing,  the  stubborn  back  bending,  the  great  arms 
trembling. 

Revere  sprang  backward  and  slipped  far  down  the 
slope. 

As  he  fell  he  caught  sight  of  burning  eyes  from  a 
face  white  as  the  sea-froth,  of  lips  set  and  bloodless, 
of  jaws  clinched,  of  sweat  standing  upon  a  bronzed 
forehead — picture  impressed  upon  his  soul  forever ! 

There  was  a  mighty  roaring,  detonating  crash  and 
all  was  over. 

Crushed  were  the  mighty  arms,  beaten  down  the 
massive  shoulders,  broken  the  iron  knees.  The  life 
of  the  man  went  out  in  the  fall,  and  the  blood  of  his 
heart  rippled  along  the  blocks  of  the  keel.  With  a 
concussion  like  the  discharge  of  a  battery,  the  mighty 
war-monster  collapsed  into  a  shapeless  mass  of  tim- 
ber, burying  beneath  it  the  man  who  had  loved  it 
best.  The  ship  that  had  been  his  own  was  nothing 
but  a  heap  of  ruins  above  his  still  heart. 

A  cloud  of  dust  rose  and  hung  over  the  wreck  in 
the  quiet  air. 

War  was  to   have  been  the  trade  of  that  ship-of- 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

the-line.  Blood  should  have  run  upon  her  white 
decks,  death  she  should  have  dealt  out  and  received, 
great  battles  should  have  made  her  famous,  heroic 
men  should  have  written  her  name  eternally  on  the 
red  pages  of  her  country's  history.  Now  it  was 
finished  ;  and  yet,  in  the  ending  at  least,  there  had 
been  a  slight  fulfilment  of  her  destiny — to  kill. 

No  struggle  could  have  been  more  superb  than  the 
quiet  one  just  over ;  no  effort  more  magnificent,  no 
conflict  more  terrible,  than  that  between  the  man 
and  the  ship.  No  ship  had  ever  claimed  a  nobler 
victim  than  Barry,  after  all,  and  no  fate  could  have 
been  more  fitting  than  that  which  had  come  to  man 
and  ship  together  in  the  end. 

The  old  war-vessel  had  lived  through  the  still  ages 
of  peace,  had  survived  the  long  period  of  decay,  had 
endured  the  disintegrating  assaults  of  time,  only  to 
accomplish  her  manifest  purpose  of  destruction  as  she 
fell. 

And  the  hand  that  had  loved  her  was  the  hand 
that  had  laid  her  low  ! 

With  dreadful  feelings  in  their  hearts,  the  three 
stood  looking  at  the  ruins  of  the  ship. 

"  Barry  !  Captain  Barry  !"  screamed  Emily,  wildly. 
"Where  is  he?" 

"There!"  gasped  Revere,  hoarsely. 

"And  is  there  no  hope?" 

"  None.  He  is  gone  forever.  My  God,  wasn't  it 
terrible  ?  He  held  up  the  ship  !" 

"  Grandfather  !"  cried  the  girl,  distraught.  "  Let 
us  run  to  him." 

178 


"  SAMSON  AGONISTES" 

The  old  man  still  sat  on  the  porch,  staring  at  what 
had  been  the  object  of  his  gaze  for  so  many  years. 
There  was  a  peaceful,  yet  sorrowful,  look  upon  his 
face.  He  had  seen  the  ship  fall ;  he  realized  that  his 
hour  had  come.  He  was  fronting  death  and  he 
knew  it,  yet  he  was  as  calm  as  he  had  been  when  he 
had  fronted  death  many  times  years  before.  They 
gathered  about  him,  understanding,  helpless. 

"Ay,"  he  said,  "the  cruise  is  over.  Where's 
Barry?" 

"  Under  the  ship,  sir." 

"  And  a  good  end  !  Strike  the  flag.  I've  lost  my 
last  command." 

Instantly  Revere  ran  to  the  foot  of  the  staff  and 
silently  cast  off  the  halliards.  As  the  little  blue  flag 
of  a  rear-admiral,  with  its  white  stars,  came  floating 
gracefully,  reluctantly,  down  from  the  masthead 
where  it  had  flown  so  long,  the  veteran  slowly  and 
painfully  rose  to  his  feet.  With  his  right  hand  he 
lifted  the  sword  of  the  Constitution,  with  his  old 
vigor  and  his  old  grace  he  bared  the  blade  and 
brought  it  up  before  him  in  graceful  salute,  while  the 
flag  fell  into  Revere' s  arms. 

"Come  aboard,  sir,"  he  said,  softly,  as  if  to  an 
Eternal  Captain. 

He  stood  erect  a  moment  and  then  sank  gently 
back  into  the  chair.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he 
forgot  the  weapon  in  his  hand.  The  sword  fell  clat- 
tering at  his  feet.  The  emblem  of  power,  authority, 
and  rank,  all  now  slipping  from  him,  lay  neglected 
where  it  fell.  A  smile  quivered  upon  his  lips,  but 

179 


WOVEN  WITH  THE  SHIP 

otherwise  he  sat  still  and  quiet,  looking  out  into  the 
future.  A  few  seconds.  The  light  faded  from  his 
eyes,  the  life  left  his  heart  The  ship  had  fallen,  the 
flag  was  down.  It  was  the  end. 

The  old  man  had  entered  the  last  haven,  dropped 
anchor  in  the  final  harbor.  The  little  breeze  which 
lifted  his  white  hairs  so  tenderly  had  wafted  his  soul 
into  another  country,  a  better — that  is,  an  heavenly ! 

With  a  low  cry,  Emily  threw  herself  on  her  knees 
before  him. 

Down  on  Ship  House  Point  a  light,  a  flame, 
burst  out  amid  the  torn  and  shattered  timbers.  In  a 
few  moments  the  ruins  of  the  now  unheeded  ship  were 
blazing  furiously.  Barry  had  cunningly  planned  it 
so  that  the  ship,  after  it  had  buried  him,  should  be 
his  funeral  pyre. 

Fitting  it  might  have  been,  thought  Revere  in  his 
heart,  as  he  looked  at  the  flames  roaring  up  from  the 
ship,  if  the  body  of  the  admiral,  like  that  of  the 
Vikings  of  old,  might  have  been  laid  upon  its  burn- 
ing timbers. 

L' ENVOI. 

When  he  was  buried,  his  country,  recognizing  his 
merit  and  remembering  his  services  again,  sent  its 
best  to  honor  him  in  death.  Admiral  Farragut,  with 
a  brilliant  staff,  was  there.  He  was  of  the  navy  of 
the  present,  Revere  represented  the  navy  of  the 
future,  and  both  stood  together  at  the  grave  of  the 
navy  of  the  past 

They  buried  him  on  the  high  hill  overlooking  Ship 
180 


"  SAMSON  AGONISTES" 

House  Point  Down  on  the  Point,  at  the  admiral's 
feet,  as  it  were,  and  just  where  the  ship  had  stood, 
Revere  erected  a  huge  block  of  rough  granite  which 
bore  this  inscription  : 

JOHN  BARRY, 

Chief  Boatswain's  Mate  of  the 

United  States  Ship-of-the-Line  Susquehanna, 

Who  perished  in  the  fall  of  that  ship,  September  2oth,  1865. 

' '  Greater  love  hath  no  man  than  this,  that  a  man  lay  down 

his  life  for  his  friends." 

In  the  lofty  character  of  his  motives,  in  the  atone- 
ment of  his  self-sacrifice,  in  the  greatness  of  his  end, 
his  purpose  of  destruction  was  forgotten. 

When  his  naval  duties  permitted,  Emily  and 
Richard  often  came  back  to  the  old  white  house  on 
the  hill  in  the  summer,  and  to  Charles  Stewart  Revere, 
John  Barry  Revere,  little  Emily  Revere,  and  Richard 
Revere,  Junior,  it  was  the  most  fascinating  spot  on 
earth.  They  stand  with  their  father  by  the  huge 
Celtic  cross  which  marks  the  admiral's  resting-place, 
and  hear  again  the  story  of  the  sword  of  the  Consti- 
tution, destined  one  day  to  be  drawn  against  the 
country  in  which  it  had  been  made.  Or — and  this 
they  like  even  better — they  sit  with  their  mother 
(lovelier  in  Richard's  eyes  with  every  passing  year) 
beneath  the  shadow  of  the  mighty  rock  on  the  Point, 
while  she  tells  them  stories  of  old  John  Barry,  and 
how  at  the  last  he  held  up  the  ship. 


181 


Part  II 


VERACIOUS  TALES 

OF 

VARIOUS  SORTS 


"  When  fiction  rises  pleasing  to  the  eye, 
Men  will  believe,  because  they  love  the  lie  ; 
But  truth  herself,  if  clouded  with  a  frown, 
Must  have  some  solemn  proof  to  pass  her  down." 

CHURCHILL 

"  'Tis  strange — but  true,  for  truth  is  always  strange, 
Stranger  than  fiction." 

BYRON 

"  Variety  'a  the  very  spice  of  life." 

COWPER 


Copyright,  1900  and  1902,  by  J.  B.  Lippincott  Company. 
Copyright,  1901  and  1902,  hy  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 
Copyright,  1902,  by  Henry  T.  Coates  &  Company. 
Copyright,  1902,  by  The  Golden  Rule  Company. 
Copyright,  1902,  by  Daily  Story  Company. 
Copyright,  1902,  by  Cyrus  Townsend  Brady. 


COUPS  DE  THEATRE 


The  world's  a  theatre,  the  earth  a  stage, 
Which  God  and  Nature  do  with  actors  fill." 

THOMAS  HEYWOOD 


A  VAUDEVILLE   TURN 


COMEDY 

"  My  soul,  sit  thou  a  patient  looker-on, 
Judge  not  the  play  before  the  play  is  done  : 
The  plot  has  many  changes :  every  day 
Speaks  a  new  scene :  the  last  act  crowns  the  play.'' 

FRANCIS  QUARLBS 


I 


most  popular  theatre  in  America, 
according  to  the  advertisements,  where 
nothing  was  played  but  the  "  continu- 
ous," was  packed  from  parquet  to  top 
gallery  with  a  perspiring  crowd  of 
pleasure-seekers  one  hot  August  night.  The  papers 
had  said — via  the  society  columns,  of  course — that 
everybody  was  out  of  town  for  the  summer,  and  inci- 
dentally, therefore,  that  all  the  ordinary  places  of 
amusement  were  closed,  except  Les  Varietes.  How- 
ever, the  city  was  not  quite  deserted  ;  for,  of  the 
anchored  ninety-nine  hundredths  of  the  population, 
all  who  could  do  so,  apparently  in  despair  of  other 
amusement,  and  attracted  by  the  popular  prices,  had 
crowded  into  "the  home  of  refined  vaudeville,"  as  it 
was  called  on  the  programme.  The  house  was  flut- 
tering with  fans  ;  most  of  the  spectators  and  actors 
felt  as  though  they  were  slowly  deliquescing  in  per- 
spiration, but,  on  the  whole,  the  audience  seemed  to 
be  enjoying  it 


A  VAUDEVILLE  TURN 

The  usual  melange — how  natural  and  appropriate 
it  seems  to  use  French  words  when  treating  of  the 
vaudeville  ! — of  entertainments  entirely  suited  even  to 
a  Mrs.  Boffin,  become  a  world-wide  type  of  matronly 
modesty  and  virtue — had  been  provided  by  the 
high-minded  and  scrutinizing  management  Ladies 
in  short  skirts  capered  nimbly  over  the  stage  to  the 
"lascivious  pleasing"  of  the  banjo;  gentlemen  with 
one  leg  rode  marvellously  endowed  bicycles  in  impos- 
sible ways  ;  tumblers  frisked  and  frolicked  about  with- 
out the  slightest  regard  either  for  temperature  or  gravi- 
tation ;  happy  tramps, — at  least  the  announcements 
said  they  were  happy, — whose  airy,  carefully  tattered 
garments  were  in  entire  consonance  with  the  heated 
atmosphere,  delivered  themselves  of  speeches  full  of 
rare  old  humor  and  fairly  bristling  with  Boeotian 
witticisms.  There  were  men  singers  and  women 
singers,  musical  cranks,  freak  piano-players,  mono- 
logue artists,  burlesquers,  and  then  a  little  play, — at 
least  they  said  it  was  a  play. 

So  with  these  multifarious  stirrers-up-of-varied- 
emotions  the  evening  drew  toward  its  close.  Fi- 
nally, just  before  the  biograph  went  through  its  eye- 
shattering,  soul-distressing  performance,  the  little  boy 
who  walked  solemnly  across  the  stage  before  each 
turn  with  such  a  queer,  self-important  strut  that  the 
regular  patrons — those  who  came  early  and  brought 
their  luncheon — felt  disappointed  when  he  took  a 
vacation,  set  out  upon  the  racks,  provided  on  either 
side  of  the  proscenium  arch  for  the  purpose,  a  tablet 
bearing  the  name  "  Mademoiselle  Helene." 

188 


A  VAUDEVILLE  TURN 

When  the  curtain  rose  thereafter  the  stage  was  set 
for  a  woodland.  The  lights  were  turned  thrillingly 
low,  so  that  the  expectant  audience  were  scarcely 
aware  how  the  tiny  little  body,  whom  they  saw  stand- 
ing in  the  full  blaze  of  the  calcium-light  ray  suddenly 
flashed  upon  her  from  the  mysterious  apparatus  in 
the  balcony,  had  reached  the  centre  of  the  stage. 

The  little  miss  was  apparently  not  more  than  six 
years  old.  She  had  short  white  stockings  on  her 
plump  little  pink  legs,  and  her  dainty  feet  were 
covered  with  black  ankle  ties.  She  wore  fluffy  little 
pink  and  white  skirts  like  a  ballet-dancer,  and  with 
her  little  bare  arms  she  blew  graceful  kisses  to  the 
audience  as  she  bounded  before  it.  With  her  sweet 
blue  eyes,  her  golden  hair,  she  made  a  beautiful 
picture,  as  she  pirouetted  around  the  stage  on  the  tips 
of  her  ten  little  toes,  kicking  up  her  little  legs,  bend- 
ing her  back,  wriggling  her  skirts  in  imitation  of 
older  and  more  sophisticated  performers, — to  put  it 
mildly, — which  would  have  been  more  amusing  if  it 
had  not  been  a  little  pitiful. 

So  little,  so  cool,  so  sweet,  so  fresh,  so  innocent 
she  seemed,  that  in  the  hot  theatre  on  that  hot  night 
no  wonder  a  great,  rapturous  "oh-h-h!"  of  delight 
and  approbation  burst  from  feminine  lips — and  mascu- 
line ones,  too,  if  the  truth  be  told.  As  the  little 
maid  in  perfect  silence  continued  her  dance,  excla- 
mations of  admiration  rose  from  the  audience,  and 
when  she  finished  her  first  turn  and  stopped  panting, 
bowing,  hand-kissing,  the  theatre  rang  with  hand- 
clapping.  Though  some  of  the  fathers  and  mothers 

189 


A  VAUDEVILLE  TURN 

in  the  audience,  with  thoughts  of  their  own  little  folk, 
murmured  under  breaths,  "  What  a  pity  !  She  ought 
to  be  at  home  in  bed  !"  the  witchery  of  her  move- 
ments and  the  charm  of  her  face  were  as  strong  upon 
them  as  they  were  upon  the  others  ;  more  so — they 
had  children  of  their  own. 

As  she  stopped  and  stood  alone  on  the  large  stage 
after  her  final  pas,  bowing  again  and  again  and 
throwing  more  kisses  in  that  sweetly  infantile  way, 
there  was  a  commotion  among  the  people  enjoying 
"standing  room  only"  in  the  passage-way  at  the 
back  of  the  parquet.  A  tall,  broad-shouldered  man 
forced  himself  through  the  crowd,  in  spite  of  angry 
remonstrances  and  rude  resistance,  and  ran  down  the 
aisle.  His  pale  face  was  working  with  emotion,  his 
eyes  shining. 

"  Nellie  !"  he  cried  as  he  ran,  in  a  voice  that 
vibrated  above  the  applause  in  the  theatre.  "  Don't 
you  know  me?  Nellie!  Nellie!"  he  continued, 
stretching  out  his  arms  toward  the  little  girl. 

The  noise  of  clapping  hands  died  away  as  if  by 
magic,  as  they  heard  the  cry,  full  of  love  and  longing. 
The  man  stopped  in  full  view  of  the  great  audience. 
The  little  girl,  hearing  the  cry,  with  one  hand  still  in 
the  air  where  the  kisses  had  stopped  half  blown 
away,  looked  at  the  man  over  the  footlights,  half- 
dazed,  apparently,  by  the  situation. 

"Papa!  Papa!"  she  cried,  suddenly  awakening 
to  life  and  bounding  toward  him.  "  Papa,  take  me 
home  !"  Every  soul  in  the  hushed  theatre  heard  the 
words  in  the  sweet  treble  of  childhood. 

190 


"  I'apa  !      I'apa  !"   she  cried,  '•  take  me  home  !'' 


A  VAUDEVILLE  TURN 

"Where's  your  mother,  baby?"  asked  the  man, 
apparently  oblivious  of  everything  but  the  little  lass. 

"She's  dead,  papa,"  answered  the  child,  brushing 
her  little  hand  across  her  eyes.  "  I'm  so  glad  you've 
found  me.  Oh,  take  me  away  !" 

"  I  will !  I  will  !"  said  the  man,  desperately, 
forcing  his  way  toward  the  stage. 

Two  of  the  ushers  and  an  officer  had  hurried  down 
the  aisle  and  seized  him  by  the  arms.  The  piano- 
player  rose  from  his  neglected  instrument  and  caught 
him  also. 

"  Let  me  go  !"  roared  the  man,  shoving  them  aside 
with  superhuman  strength,  apparently.  "She's  my 
daughter,  I  tell  you  !  I  will  have  her  !" 

The  lights  on  the  stage  were  suddenly  turned  up. 
A  hard-featured  man  came  forward  and  grasped  the 
child  by  the  arm. 

"What's  all  this  row?"  he  cried  ;  "I'm  the  mana- 
ger of  Mademoiselle  Helene.  Her  mother  left  the 
child  with  me.  She  gets  good  food  and  clothes  and 
is  well  taken  care  of.  What  more  does  she  want?" 

"  I  want  my  papa  !  Oh,  I  want  you  !"  cried  the 
little  girl. 

"  And  you  shall  have  me,  dear." 

"No,"  said  the  man  on  the  stage,  roughly,  "she 
shall  not !" 

"Gentlemen,"  cried  the  other  man,  turning  about 
and  facing  the  audience.  "  Friends,  there  is  my  little 
daughter.  Her  mother  ran  away  from  me,  left  me. 
I  haven't  seen  Nellie  for  two  years.  I  just  happened 

in  here  to-night  and  recognized  her,  and " 

191 


A  VAUDEVILLE  TURN 

"Give  him  his  daughter,"  broke  out  a  burly  man 
in  the  third  row  of  the  parquet,  rising  in  his  seat  as 
he  spoke  and  shaking  his  fist  at  the  man  on  the  stage, 
"  or " 

The  house  was  in  a  perfect  uproar  now.  The 
women  in  tears,  the  men  screaming  with  flushed,  ex- 
cited faces. 

"  Let  him  have  her  !" 

"  Give  her  up  P' 

"  Let  the  child  go  with  her  father  !" 

"Shame!     Shame!" 

"  Mob  him  !" 

"  Lynch  the  wretch  !" 

The  man  on  the  stage  fairly  quailed  before  this 
outburst  of  popular  passion  ;  the  ushers  and  officer 
had  released  the  other  man,  but  before  he  could  take 
a  step  the  local  manager  appeared  on  the  stage  in 
the  midst  of  the  confusion.  Lifting  his  hand  to  the 
crowd,  he  finally  succeeded  in  stilling  the  tumult 

"  I  have  heard  it  all !"  he  cried,  as  soon  as  he 
could  command  attention.  "This  theatre  don't  want 
to  part  father  and  daughter.  Give  the  child  to  the 
man.  And  get  out  of  here !"  he  added,  turning 
fiercely  and  shaking  his  fist  at  the  hard-featured  man 
on  the  stage. 

The  latter  let  go  the  child's  arm  and  shrank  back 
in  the  wings,  followed  by  the  jeers  of  the  crowd. 
Then  the  local  manager  took  the  little  girl  in  his 
arms,  stepped  over  the  footlights,  and  handed  her  to 
the  man  who  had  claimed  her. 

He  lifted  her  up,  kissed  her,  and  pressed  her 
192 


A  VAUDEVILLE  TURN 

tenderly  to  his  breast.  She  clasped  her  little  arms 
around  his  neck  and  dropped  her  head  on  his  shoul- 
der with  a  low  cry  of  content. 

"Thank  you,  sir  !"  said  the  man  to  the  manager; 
"thank  you  all,  ladies  and  gentlemen!  Oh,  I  have 
got  her  back  again  !" 

He  turned  with  his  precious  burden  and  walked 
rapidly  down  the  aisle,  passed  out  of  the  door,  and 
disappeared  in  the  night. 

The  house  rang  with  cheers.  Men  and  women  stood 
up  and  clapped  and  applauded  and  yelled  like  mad. 
When  a  semblance  of  order  was  restored,  the  local 
manager  dismissed  the  audience.  As  he  said,  none 
of  the  performers  were  in  condition  to  go  on  further 
after  the  little  tragedy  they  had  witnessed,  which  had 
ended  so  happily,  after  all.  Nor  was  the  audience  in 
a  mood  for  any  more  vaudeville  after  the  bit  of  real 
life  in  which  they  had  participated. 

******** 

"  How  did  it  go  off,  Bill  ?"  asked  the  brown-haired 
man  of  the  local  manager  in  the  office  half  an  hour 
later. 

"Fine  !"  said  the  manager.  "  It  was  the  greatest 
act  I  ever  saw.  You  did  splendidly,  old  man.  I 
congratulate  you." 

"It  has  only  one  disadvantage,"  remarked  the 
hard-featured  man  :  "  you  can  only  do  it  once  in  each 
town.  It's  only  good  for  one-night  stands." 

"And  didn't  Nellie  do  it  well?"  returned  the 
other. 

"She  did  that,"  replied  the  local  manager ;  "she 
13  193 


A  VAUDEVILLE  TURN 

couldn't  have  done  it  better  !  It  almost  made  me 
weep  myself." 

"  That  child's  a  born  actress,"  said  the  hard- 
featured  man  ;  "she'll  be  a  treasure  some  day,  sure." 

"  She's  a  treasure  now,"  replied  the  local  manager. 
"What  a  pity  we  couldn't  do  it  over  to-night !" 

"Do  you  know,  men,"  said  the  brown-haired  man, 
"I  feel  real  guilty  somehow.  Seems  like  such  a 
fraud " 

"  Nonsense,  Bill !"  interrupted  the  manager,  yet 
with  a  note  of  sympathy  in  his  tone. 

"  Rot !"  commented  hard  features,  not  the  least 
comprehending. 

"Where  is  she  now?"  asked  the  other,  shaking  his 
head  dubiously,  still  uncertain  and  unconvinced. 

"  Her  father  and  mother  took  her  home  right  after 
the  performance,  and  I  hope  she  is  fast  asleep  in  her 
bed  by  this  time,  like  a  good  little  girl,"  continued 
the  manager.  "  Here's  your  check,  Bill.  Be  on 
hand  Monday  night  when  we  open  at  X ' ' 


'94 


THE  LAST   TRIBUTE   TO    HIS   GENIUS 

TRAGEDY 

"  I  have  heard 

That  guilty  creatures  sitting  at  a  play, 
Have,  by  the  very  cunning  of  the  scene, 
Been  struck  so  to  the  soul  that  presently 
They  have  proclaim'd  their  malefactions  ; 
For  murder,  though  it  have  no  tongue,  will  speak 
With  most  miraculous  organ." 

SHAKESPBARB 

THE  crime    had   been  one   of  peculiar 
atrociousness.      While    the    little    old 
man   who  kept   the   quaint  curiosity- 
shop  down  on  Linden  Street  seemed 
to   have    few    or  no    friends,  he   was 
blessed  with  a  great  many  acquaintances,  especially 
among  the  people  of  the  better  class,  for  whom  it 
was  quite  a  fad  to  visit  the  dingy,  shabby  little  store, 
with    its    assortment  of  bric-a-brac,    mouldy   books, 
articles  of  virtu,  and  antiques,  genuine  or  spurious, 
valuable  or  worthless,  all  heaped  about  in  promiscu- 
ous confusion. 

Indeed,  the  "  Major"  was  not  the  least  curious 
object  in  the  collection.  Few  people  knew  that  the 
title  represented  gallant  and  youthful  soldiering  in 
Rebellion  days  before  he  shrivelled  and  dried  up  in 
the  musty  little  shop.  When,  therefore,  he  was 
found  dead  among  his  raffle  of  goods,  about  half 

195 


THE  LAST  TRIBUTE  TO  His  GENIUS 

after  seven  on  a  summer  evening,  with  his  brains 
brutally  beaten  out  by  a  hammer,  which  lay  by  his 
side,  the  greatest  excitement  was  manifested  every- 
where. That  a  man  should  be  murdered  in  a  store 
on  one  of  the  main  thoroughfares  of  the  city  at  that 
hour  and  in  that  way ;  that  the  murderer  should 
make  his  escape  by  the  front  door,  which  was  left 
open,  were  in  themselves  sufficiently  remarkable  facts 
to  engage  widespread  attention. 

Rewards  were  offered  by  the  city  government ;  the 
metropolitan  police  force,  supplemented  by  the  best 
detectives  that  could  be  imported,  who  were  paid  by 
private  subscription,  worked  upon  the  case  in  vain. 
No  clew  presented  itself,  nothing  whatever  was  dis- 
covered. The  contents  of  the  shop  were  finally  sold 
at  auction  and  the  store  was  closed.  The  estate, 
which  was  surprisingly  small,  contrary  to  the  general 
opinion, — which,  in  fact,  consisted  merely  of  the  pro- 
ceeds of  the  sale  of  the  goods, — was  administered  in 
the  interests  of  some  distant  connections,  and  the 
whole  affair  after  a  short  time  was  practically  forgot- 
ten. Yet  somewhere  on  the  earth  a  man  wandered 
with  the  guilt  of  murder  heavy  on  his  soul. 

********* 

When  it  was  announced  in  the  advertisements  that 
Sir  Henry  Irving,  the  great  English  actor,  was  to  play 
The  Bells  on  Thursday  night,  society — and  those  not 
within  the  charmed  circle  who  could  scrape  together 
the  unusual  price  demanded  by  the  elaborate  nature 
of  Sir  Henry's  staging — anticipated  a  great  intellect- 
ual treat  To  see  the  character  of  Matthias  inter- 

196 


THE  LAST  TRIBUTE  TO  His  GENIUS 

preted  by  such  a  master  of  the  tragic  art  could  hardly 
be  called  entertaining,  of  course,  yet  anything  which 
takes  us  out  of  the  humdrum  routine  of  every-day 
life  and  quickens  the  blood  that  beats  with  such 
commonplace  sluggishness  ordinarily  is  most  desira- 
ble. It  is  easy,  therefore,  to  understand  the  avidity 
with  which  the  opportunity  for  paying  the  unusual 
price  for  being  shocked  and  terrified  was  welcomed. 

The  play,  with  its  damnable  iteration  of  chiming 
sleigh-bells  and  its  awful  portrayal  of  the  strug- 
gles of  a  crime-stained  human  soul  against  diabolic 
memories,  proceeded  with  that  wonderful  smoothness 
and  effectiveness  for  which  Sir  Henry's  productions 
were  famous.  After  the  short  intermission  at  the 
close  of  the  second  act,  the  audience,  most  of  whom 
were  familiar  with  the  story,  settled  themselves  with 
delicious  thrills  of  foreboding  anticipation  to  witness 
the  dreadful  and  harrowing  denouement  in  which  the 
murderer's  dream — that  the  crime  of  years  is  at  last 
exposed  and  the  brand  of  guilt  is  fixed  upon  his 
honored  brow — is  exhibited  on  the  stage  in  all  its 
terrific  realism. 

The  house,  including  the  stage,  was  totally  dark. 
A  weird,  ghastly  beam  of  light  thrown  from  the 
wings  fell  fitfully  upon  the  face  of  Sir  Henry, — no, 
of  Matthias  himself.  The  great  actor's  identity  was 
lost,  merged,  forgotten  in  the  character  he  portrayed. 
Not  another  thing  could  be  perceived  in  the  theatre. 
The  gaze  of  every  man  and  woman  and  child  in  that 
vast  assemblage  was  concentrated  upon  that  beautiful, 
mobile,  terrible  face.  The  silence  with  which  the 

197 


THE  LAST  TRIBUTE  TO  His  GENIUS 

audience  listened  to  that  piercing,  shuddering  voice 
out  of  the  darkness  was  oppressive.  Could  one's 
attention  have  been  distracted  from  that  stage  he 
might  have  caught  the  quickening  intake  of  deep 
breaths,  or  here  and  there  marked  the  low,  quivering 
sighs  with  which  nervous  people,  under  the  influence 
of  that  terrible  portrayal  of  the  agony  of  remorse 
and  apprehension  at  detected  murder,  trembled, 
watched,  and  waited. 

Yet  there  was  nothing  actually  to  be  seen  in  the 
opera-house  but  the  face  of  the  actor,  or  sometimes 
a  white,  ghastly  hand  and  a  dim,  dark  suggestion  of  a 
body  writhing  in  mortal  torture,  so  keen  as  almost  to 
pass  belief,  in  a  tour  de  force  of  unwilling  confession. 
The  detachment  was  perfect,  the  illusion  was  com- 
plete ;  there  before  them  was  a  soul  in  judgment 

As  the  man  was  forced,  under  the  influence  of  a 
higher  power  than  his  own,  to  describe  the  murder, 
the  base  violation  of  hospitality,  the  blow  of  the  axe 
that  killed  a  guest,  by  which  fifteen  years  before  he 
had  laid  the  foundation  of  his  fortune ;  as  he  was 
constrained  to  act  again  before  his  judges  in  hypnotic 
trance  the  awful  happenings  of  the  tragedy  of  that 
Christmas  Eve,  of  which  none  had  suspected  him  ; 
and  when,  on  being  released  from  the  spell,  his  con- 
fession was  read  to  him  by  the  court,  and  the  realiza- 
tion came  to  him  that  the  fabric  of  respectability 
which  he  had  carefully  created  upon  the  shifting  sand 
of  murder  had  crashed  into  nothing, — who,  that  has 
seen  it,  or  heard  it,  will  ever  forget  the  fearful  anguish 
and  despair  of  that  wrecked  soul  ? 

198 


THE  LAST  TRIBUTE  TO  His  GENIUS 

As  Matthias  fell  prostrate  at  the  feet  of  the  judges, 
moaning  in  utter  desolation  and  abandonment,  the 
appalling  stillness  was  suddenly  broken,  and  this  time 
the  sound  came  not  from  the  stage.  Out  of  the 
darkness  of  the  auditorium  a  thin,  high  voice,  fraught 
with  a  note  of  torture  more  real  and  intense,  if  pos- 
sible, than  that  which  the  marvellous  skill  of  the  actor 
had  produced,  was  hurled  into  the  great  vault  of  the 
theatre. 

"No,  no,"  it  cried;  "you  are  wrong.  It  was  a 
hammer  !" 

The  surprise  of  the  audience  for  the  moment  held 
them  still,  while  the  voice  shrieked  out  in  the  dark- 
ness,— 

"  It  is  enough !  I'll  confess.  Guilty,  oh,  my 
God,  guilty !  It  was  I  !  The  murder — light,  for 
God's  sake,  light !" 

A  woman  screamed  suddenly.  People  rose  to 
their  feet.  One  of  those  strange,  swaying  move- 
ments which  bespeak  a  panic  ran  through  the 
crowd.  Matthias  on  the  stage  rose  instantly, 
faced  about,  and  walked  toward  the  dark  footlights, 
a  genuine  horror  in  his  soul  this  time,  for  no  human 
voice  that  he  had  ever  heard  had  carried  such  mortal 
pain  as  that  which  had  just  spoken.  The  theatre 
was  filled  with  a  babel  of  voices.  Confused  shouts 
and  cries  came  from  all  sides. 

"  Lights,  lights  !" 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Go  on  with  the  performance  !" 

At  that  instant  the  lights  were  turned  up.  There, 
199 


THE  LAST  TRIBUTE  TO  His  GENIUS 

in  the  middle  aisle,  a  few  rows  from  the  orchestra 
rail,  a  tall,  thin  man,  his  haggard  face  white  with 
emotion,  his  eyes  staring,  his  teeth  clinched  'neath 
bloodless  lips,  stood  swaying  unsteadily  to  and  fro. 
His  hands  uplifted  as  if  to  ward  off  a  blow,  he  stood 
utterly  oblivious  of  everything  but  Matthias.  From 
the  chair  beside  him  a  woman  with  a  face  scarcely 
less  white,  in  which  were  mingled  incredulity,  surprise, 
and  horror,  reached  her  arms  up  to  him  as  if  to  save 
him. 

"  I  can't  stand  it  any  longer !"  cried  the  man, 
staring  up  at  Matthias.  "  You've  done  it.  I'll  con- 
fess all !  It  has  torn  me  to  pieces !"  he  screamed, 
clutching  at  his  throat.  "  The  Major — I  beat  him  to 
death  with  his  hammer,  like  you  did,  for  his  money. 
I  took  it  from  his  person.  I  knew  it  was  there.  I 
was  his  friend,  his  only  friend.  My  God  !  There 
was  no  place  to  burn  his  body.  He's  always  at  my 
feet.  He's  staring  at  me  now  by  you  on  the  stage  !" 

Sir  Henry  shrank  away  involuntarily  as  the  man 
went  on. 

"  Pity,  pity !"  he  wailed,  staggering,  stumbling 
forward,  falling  upon  his  knees  nearer  to  Sir  Henry. 
"Mercy!"  he  whispered  at  last,  yet  with  such  dis- 
tinctness that  they  heard  him  in  every  corner  of  the 
theatre. 

He  knelt  with  his  hands  outstretched  toward  the 
stage,  waiting  for  reprieve,  sentence,  condemnation, — 
God  knows  what 

The  audience  stared  likewise  with  suspended 
hearts  from  the  great  but  mimic  figure  of  murder 


THE  LAST  TRIBUTE  TO  His  GENIUS 

on  one  side  of  the  footlights  to  the  greater  and 
real  figure  of  murder  upon  the  other.  As  they 
gazed  the  man  wavered  forward  again,  sank  lower, 
his  hands  fell,  but  before  he  collapsed  completely, 
an  officer  of  the  law,  the  first  to  recover  his  wits 
in  the  presence  of  the  catastrophe,  ran  down  the  aisle 
and  pounced  upon  him.  Grasping  his  shoulder,  he 
cried, — 

"You're  my  prisoner.      I  arrest  you  !" 

"Too  late,"  whispered  the  man;  "I'm — going — 
going — to  plead — in  another — court." 

He  pitched  forward  and  fell  on  his  face — dead. 
And  a  woman,  dry-eyed  with  horror,  old  love  sur- 
viving honor,  respect,  righteousness,  knelt  by  his  side, 
took  his  head  in  her  arms,  and  strove  to  kiss  away 
from  his  brow  the  mark  of  Cain. 

So  the  mystery  of  the  Major's  murder  was  solved 
at  last,  and  Sir  Henry,  as  he  thought  it  over  in  his 
chamber  that  night,  realized  that  he  had  received  the 
greatest  tribute  that  mortal  man  could  pay  to  his 
acting.  His  art  had  been  so  perfect — he  had  appeared 
the  incarnation  of  terror,  remorse,  and  retribution — 
that  to  that  struggling  soul  he  had  been  as  the  voice 
of  conscience, — nay,  as  the  very  voice  of  God.  For 
the  man  had  actually  given  way,  broken  down,  and 
confessed  a  secret  crime  under  the  mighty  spell  of 
his  acting,  and,  as  the  criminal  in  the  play,  had  died 
in  the  confession  ! 


201 


OUT  OF  THE  WEST 


"  The  sun  sets  fair  in  that  Western  land, 

Romance  rides  over  the  plains  j 
There  hearts  are  gay  at  the  close  of  day, — 
Man's  duty's  done,  God  reigns." 

WARREN  GILES 


IN   OKLAHOMA 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE   PRAIRIE  IN  THREE  FLIGHTS 

"  The  sun  lay  dying  in  the  west, 

The  fresh  breeze  fanned  my  brow, 
I  rode  the  steed  I  loved  the  best — 
Would  I  were  riding  now." 

I.— THE  FIRST  FLIGHT 

MOST    written     stories    end    with    a 
wedding,  actual  or  prospective  ;  but 
this  story,  like  most  stories  in  real 
life,  begins  with  one.     The  little  old 
stone  church  in  Manhattan,  Kansas, 
was  crowded  to  the  doors  one  June  afternoon.     The 
gray-haired  President,  the  younger  men  and  women 
of  the  faculty,  and  a  small  sprinkling  of  the  towns- 
people were  there  ;  but  the  great  mass  of  the  con- 
gregation was  made  up  of  the  students  of  the  State 
Agricultural  College,  which  was  situated  on  a  gentle 
hill  just  outside  the  town.     It  was  Graduation  Day, 
and  the  day  on  which  Sue  Belle  Seville  and  Samuel 
Maxwell  had  elected  to  get  married. 

Samuel  was  a  Kansas  boy,  Sue  Belle  a  Kentucky 
girl.  They  were  both  orphans  and  both  graduates 
from  the  college  that  day  in  the  same  class  :  Samuel 
from  the  agricultural  and  mechanical  department, 
Sue  Belle  from  the  housekeeping,  culinary,  domestic 

205 


IN  OKLAHOMA 

sciences,  and  other  of  the  many  departments  femi- 
nine. Maxwell  was  a  manly,  energetic,  capable 
fellow,  a  good  student,  and  a  young  man  who,  given 
an  equal  chance,  should  make  a  fine  farmer.  On 
that  day  he  was  the  envy  of  all  the  young  men  of 
marriageable  age  in  the  college. 

His  bride  to  be,  while  she  seemed  made  for  better 
things  than  the  ineffably  monotonous  drudgery  of 
an  ordinary  farmer's  wife,  was  nevertheless  skilled 
enough,  capable  enough,  resolute  enough,  to  master 
her  lot  and  be  happy  in  it  whatever  it  might  be.  She 
was  a  handsome  girl,  tall,  straight,  strong,  black- 
haired,  blue-eyed,  with  the  healthiest  whiteness  in  her 
face  that  one  could  imagine. 

The  brief  wedding  ceremony  was  soon  over.  Old 
Dr.  Fairman,  the  President,  gave  the  bride  away  in 
his  usual  courtly  and  distinguished  manner,  and  as 
the  village  organist  played  the  wedding-march  on  the 
sweet-toned  old  organ,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Samuel  Max- 
well passed  out  of  the  church,  followed  by  all  of  the 
congregation.  At  the  end  of  the  long  cinder  foot- 
path extending  from  the  church-door  under  the 
double  row  of  trees  to  the  street  stood  a  brand-new 
Studebaker  wagon  filled  with  household  goods.  Two 
stout,  well-conditioned  horses  were  harnessed  to  it, 
while  two  others,  a  good  mare  and  a  handsome  young 
horse,  a  three-year-old  colt,  were  fastened  to  the  tail- 
board by  long  hitching-straps.  The  wagon  had  been 
transformed  by  a  canvas  canopy  over  the  bed  into 
what  was  popularly  known  as  a  "prairie  schooner." 
The  new  canvas  was  white  as  snow  in  the  sunlight. 

206 


IN  OKLAHOMA 

Maxwell  handed  his  wife  to  the  seat  on  the  front, 
pitched  quarters  to  the  negro  boys  who  had  been 
holding  the  horses'  heads,  gathered  up  the  reins,  and, 
amid  a  storm  of  cheers  and  a  shower  of  rice — espe- 
cially appropriate  to  an  agricultural  college,  by  the 
way — and  other  manifestations  of  joy  and  delight, 
drove  away  on  the  wedding  journey.  The  watchers 
followed  with  their  eyes  the  wagon  lumbering  slowly 
down  the  main  street  until  it  crossed  the  bridge  over 
the  Kansas  River  and  disappeared  among  the  hills  to 
the  southward. 

After  settling  the  expenses  of  their  college  course 
and  paying  for  their  outfit,  the  two  young  people 
found  themselves  in  possession  of  some  two  thousand 
dollars  between  them  ;  more  than  enough,  they  fan- 
cied, backed  as  it  was — or  should  I  say  led  ? — by 
two  stout  hearts  and  by  four  strong  young  arms,  to 
wrest  a  livelihood — nay,  a  fortune,  perhaps — from  the 
prairies  of  the  West 

An  old,  old  story,  this.  A  pair  of  home-builders 
going  out  into  a  new  land  to  conquer  or  die ;  to 
establish  another  outpost  of  civilization  on  the  dis- 
tant frontier,  or  to  fail.  A  man  and  a  woman  who 
had  taken  their  all  in  their  hands  to  consecrate  it  by 
their  toil  to  the  service  of  humanity,  and  to  stake 
their  happiness  on  the  success  of  their  endeavor. 
True  builders  of  the  nation,  they !  Pickets  they 
were,  going  ahead  of  the  advance  guard  of  the  army 
of  civilization's  marchers,  which,  untold  ages  ago, 
started  in  some  secluded  nook  in  the  far  Orient,  and, 
impelled  by  an  irresistible  desire  for  conquest,  in 

207 


IN  OKLAHOMA 

successive  waves  of  emigration,  has  at  last  compassed 
the  globe,  rolled  around  the  world.  Leaders,  these 
two,  of  that  mighty  deluge  of  men  and  women  for 
whom  the  sun  of  hope  is  ever  rising, — but  rising  in 
the  West 

Never  was  such  a  wedding  journey.  It  was  spring- 
time in  the  most  bountiful  and  fertile  year  that  had 
come  to  the  great  State  for  a  generation.  The  way 
of  the  lovers,  as  they  plodded  ever  southward  and 
westward,  led  them  now  past  vast  fields  of  yellowing 
wheat  already  beginning  to  ripen  for  the  thresher. 
Sometimes  they  drove  for  miles  through  towering 
walls  of  broad-bladed,  cool,  green  corn  ;  sometimes 
the  trail  led  them  over  the  untilled,  treeless  prairies 
covered  with  tall,  nodding  sunflowers  in  all  their  gor- 
geous golden  bloom, — blossoms  which  gave  the  State 
a  name ;  and  not  infrequently  their  way  would  take 
them  alongside  a  limpid  river,  in  that  happy  season 
bank  full  from  the  frequent  rains,  where  the  winding 
road  would  be  overhung  by  great  trees. 

They  stopped  at  night  at  the  different  little  towns 
through  which  their  way  passed,  and  once  in  a  while 
they  enjoyed  the  hearty  welcome  of  a  lone  farm-house. 
Sometimes  they  hired  a  negro  boy  to  drive  the 
wagon  from  one  stopping-place  to  another,  while  they 
mounted  the  two  led  horses  and  galloped  over  the 
prairie.  Samuel  rode  well,  but  to  see  Sue  Belle  on 
that  spirited  young  steed  of  hers  was  to  see  the  per- 
fection of  dashing  horsemanship.  An  instinctive  judge 
of  horse-flesh,  she  had  bought  that  three-year-old 
herself.  He  was  a  chestnut  sorrel  with  a  white  blaze 

208 


IN  OKLAHOMA 

on  his  face,  and  white  forefeet,  as  handsome  and 
spirited  as  his  mistress.  In  honor  of  her  native  State, 
she  called  him  Kentucky. 

As  they  progressed  farther  and  farther  southwest- 
ward  the  land  became  more  open,  the  farm-houses 
were  greater  distances  apart,  cultivated  fields  less 
frequent,  the  towns  were  fewer  in  number  and  dimin- 
ishing in  size,  the  rivers  grew  smaller  and  smaller, 
and  trees  almost  vanished  from  the  landscape.  Fi- 
nally, away  out  in  Cimarron  County,  where  the  rail- 
road stopped  and  civilization  ended,  they  reached 
their  journey's  end.  Such  a  wedding-trip  they  had 
enjoyed,  such  a  honeymoon  they  had  spent ! 

They  bought  a  bit  of  flower-decked  prairie,  a 
quarter  section  crossed  in  one  corner  by  a  little  creek 
flowing  southward  until  it  joined  a  larger  steam  flow- 
ing into  the  Arkansas  River.  The  chosen  land  mostly 
lay  on  the  south  side  of  a  slight  elevation  from  which 
they  could  survey  the  grass-mantled  plains  melting 
into  the  unbroken  horizon  miles  and  miles  away. 
The  country  about  was  entirely  uncultivated  and  had 
been  mainly  given  over  to  cattle-raising ;  it  was  a 
dozen  miles  to  the  nearest  house  and  fifteen  to  the 
town  of  Apache,  the  county-seat. 

How  still  was  that  vast  expanse  of  gently  undulating 
land  of  which  they  were  the  centre  !  An  ocean  caught 
in  a  quiet  moment,  and  every  smoothly  rolling  wave 
petrified,  motionless.  How  vast  was  the  firmament 
above  them  !  To  lie  in  the  grass  at  night  and  stare 
up  into  its  blue  unclouded  distance  filled  with  stars — 
shone  they  ever  so  gloriously  anywhere  else  on  the 
M  209 


IN  OKLAHOMA 

globe  ? — was  to  reduce  one's  self  to  a  vanishing  point 
in  the  infinite  universe  of  God.  Lonely?  Yes,  to 
ordinary  people,  perhaps,  but  not  to  these  two  home- 
builders.  They  were  young,  they  were  together, 
they  were  lovers,  and  they  had  to  do  prosaic,  God- 
given  labor. 

So  they  pitched  their  stakes  upon  the  verdant  hill, 
and,  toiling  early  and  late,  built  there  for  themselves 
and  those  to  come  a  home.  With  iron  share  they 
tore  the  virgin  sod  ;  with  generous  hands  they  sowed 
the  seed  ;  with  all  the  hope  of  youth  and  love  bour- 
geoning and  blossoming  in  their  breasts,  they  began 
the  earth-old  process  of  wresting  a  living  from  the 
tillage  of  the  soil.  "  In  the  sweat  of  thy  face  shalt 
thou  eat  bread."  So  ran  the  primal  truth.  Ah,  yes, 
but  this  time  counted  not  a  curse  but  a  privilege,  and 
enjoyed  not  without  but  within  an  Eden. 

II.— THE  SECOND  FLIGHT 

SPRING-TIME  again  upon  the  farm,  and  they  were 
bidding  it  good-by.  Five  years  have  dragged  away, 
years  filled  with  little  but  misfortune — years  of  freez- 
ing winters,  burning  summers,  drought,  or  storm. 
Five  lean  years  of  failure,  unprecedented  but  true. 
A  long,  deadly,  paralyzing  struggle  with  that  terrible 
minatory  face  of  nature  which,  thank  God !  is  usually 
turned  away  from  humanity,  else  we  could  not  bear 
the  sight.  The  sun  had  beaten  upon  the  farm  and 
burnt  it  up,  the  parasites  had  swarmed  over  the  field 
and  eaten  it  down,  the  winter  cold  had  frozen  the  life 
out  of  it,  the  fierce  storms  had  swept  over  it  and  torn 

210 


IN  OKLAHOMA 

it  away, — winter  and  summer  had  been  alike  against 
them. 

Last  fall  the  deadly  mortgage  had  grown  from  the 
little  hand-breadth  cloud  until  it  had  covered  the 
land,  blanketed  it,  blighted  it,  filled  earth  and  sky  to 
them.  It  was  over.  They  had  toiled  for  naught,  and 
no  profit  had  they  taken  of  all  their  labor  under  the 
sun.  They  were  beaten  at  last. 

Once  more  the  old  Studebaker  wagon.  Within  it 
a  haggard,  dogged,  disappointed  man, — yet  indomi- 
table ;  a  woman  still  young,  robbed  forever  of  the 
brightness  of  youth,  yet  striving  to  nourish  a  spark  of 
the  old  hope, — a  mother,  too.  Two  little  children 
clung  to  her,  healthy,  lusty,  strong,  happy ;  they  had 
neither  known  nor  suffered.  There  was  the  same  old 
team  between  the  "tugs,"  sobered,  quieted,  saddened 
like  their  master,  perhaps,  and  Kentucky.  Kentucky 
was  leaner  than  he  should  be,  not  so  well  nour- 
ished as  they  would  like  to  have  him,  but  his  spirit 
was  unabated.  He,  at  least,  had  not  been  beaten 
down. 

So  they  set  forth  again.  "  Once  more  into  the 
breach,"  brave  pair.  Life  insistently  craves  bread. 
Men  must  work  ;  ay,  and  women,  too,  though  they 
may  weep  as  well.  There  were  the  little  children, 
oh,  father  and  mother !  treasure  of  health  and  teach- 
ing must  be  laid  up  for  them.  The  old  cause  must 
be  tried  out  yet  again.  Farewell  to  defeat,  farewell 
to  failure,  farewell  to  the  old.  Let  us  stir  up  hope 
again,  look  forward  into  the  future,  deserve  a  triumph. 
All  had  been  lost  but  love  ;  that  had  not  failed,  and 

211 


IN  OKLAHOMA 

while  God  is  it  cannot.  It  is  a  mighty  talisman  with 
which  to  attempt  the  morrow.  So  armed,  they  started 
out  again. 

With  one  hundred  dollars  in  his  pocket,  a  small 
lot  of  household  necessaries,  a  stove,  some  blankets, 
etc.,  and  Kentucky,  Samuel  Maxwell  and  Sue  Belle 
and  the  two  children  started  out  in  the  wagon  again 
to  have  another  wrestle  with  fortune.  They  deter- 
mined to  go  to  the  Kansas-Indian  Territory  border 
and  try  to  secure  free  land  in  Oklahoma  Territory, 
which  was  to  be  opened  for  settlement  that  summer. 

They  hated  the  prairie  where  they  had  lived  now. 
It  was  associated  with  their  ruin,  eloquent  of  their 
future.  That  season  bade  fair  to  be  as  bountiful  a 
time  as  had  been  the  year  of  their  arrival,  but  they 
could  not  stay.  They  had  pulled  up  the  stakes,  and 
nothing  was  left  for  them  but  to  go  on.  Indeed,  they 
were  wishful  to  do  so,  and  had  they  known  that,  as 
it  happened,  the  five  years  of  starvation,  drought, 
and  failure  were  to  be  succeeded  by  twice  as  many 
years  of  abounding  plenty,  they  would  not  have 
stayed.  They  loathed  the  spot.  They  could  not 
have  remained  anyway.  Another  man  held  the  farm 
and  succeeded  where  they  had  failed,  reaping  where 
they  had  sown. 

It  was  late  summer  when  they  reached  Solo- 
mon City,  from  which  they  had  elected  to  make  the 
run  into  the  hitherto  forbidden  land.  The  place  was 
filled  with  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men  and  women 
attracted  by  the  possibility  of  getting  a  quarter  section 
or  a  town  lot  practically  free  in  the  Cherokee  strip  ; 


IN  OKLAHOMA 

there  were  half  a  million  of  them  on  the  border-line! 
And  there,  too,  were  congregated  the  human  vultures 
that  live  to  prey  upon  the  crowd. 

The  distribution  of  the  lots  and  sections  was  to  be 
made  on  the  principle  of  first  come  first  served.  All 
seekers  for  locations  were  to  line  up  on  the  edge  of 
the  strip  on  a  given  date  at  a  certain  hour,  and  when 
a  signal  was  given  they  were  to  rush  into  the  Nation, 
drive  a  stake  in  a  quarter  section,  or  in  a  town  lot  at 
the  places  where  the  towns  had  previously  been  sur- 
veyed and  lots  plotted  and  staked  out  by  the  govern- 
ment, throughout  the  vast  body  of  land  in  the  Indian 
Territory  thrown  open  for  settlement  Then  they 
were  to  hold  their  places,  living  in  tents  and  shanties, 
until  they  could  erect  houses  and  prove  their  claims. 

Samuel  intended  to  ride  Kentucky  into  the  strip 
and  take  his  chance  at  a  town  lot  He  had  had 
enough  of  farms.  Not  many  miles  below  Solomon 
City,  on  the  railroad  running  through  the  "strip," — 
as  the  land  was  called, — the  future  town  of  Newlands 
had  been  laid  out  by  the  surveyors.  It  was  a  paper 
town  as  yet,  but  the  day  after  the  run  would  see  it 
suddenly  become  a  city,  and  good  lots  would  prob- 
ably be  of  value.  If  he  could  get  a  good  one  it 
might  be  worth  several  thousand  dollars,  and  he  could 
start  again.  It  was  a  desperate  chance,  but  he  had 
to  take  it ;  there  was  nothing  else. 

Ill  fortune  was  not  yet  done  with  them,  however, 

for  in  scrambling  down  the  bank  of  the  river  to  get 

water  for  his  team,  the  unfortunate  man  fell  and  broke 

his  arm.     He  climbed  up  to  the  wagon,  sank  down 

.-     213 


IN  OKLAHOMA 

on  the  dry  grass  beside  it,  and  gave  way.  Sue  Belle 
stood  by  with  white  face  as  the  local  doctor  bound  up 
his  arm,  but  she  did  not  cry.  She  felt  that  she  had 
other  things  to  do,  that  she  must  play  the  man,  and 
that  she  could  not  indulge  in  the  womanly  luxury  of 
weeping. 

"  I'm  not  crying,  doctor,  because  it  hurts,"  said 
Samuel,  brushing  away  his  tears  with  his  uninjured 
arm;  "but  because  this  seems  to  be  just  the  last 
straw  in  our  bad  luck.  We  were  married  five  years 
ago,  and  we  bought  a  farm  in  Cimarron.  I'm  a  good 
farmer,  I  was  born  on  a  farm  and  raised  on  it,  and  I 
was  trained  in  the  Agricultural  College  in  Kansas.  I 
know  the  thing  theoretically  and  practically,  too,  but 
everything  failed  us.  We've  lost  everything,  and  we 
came  here  in  the  hope  of  getting  something  out  of 
the  strip.  God's  forgot  us,  I  guess." 

The  doctor  had  seen  many  cases  like  that  in  the 
Southwest,  and,  though  his  heart  was  profoundly 
touched,  he  could  do  nothing. 

That  night  Samuel  lay  awake  in  the  wagon  almost 
forgetting  the  pain  in  his  arm  wondering  what  would 
become  of  them.  He  had  lugged  out  his  old  leather 
purse  and  counted  the  money  that  was  left, — ten 
dollars  !  That  was  all  that  stood  between  them  and 
starvation  !  The  strip  was  to  be  opened  to-morrow, 
the  run  would  take  place  then.  What,  in  God's 
name,  could  he  do  ? 

"Sam,"  said  Sue  Belle,  lying  awake  by  his  side, 
"  don't  give  way  so  !" 

"  Give  way,  dear  !"  he  groaned.  "  How  can  I  help 
214 


IN  OKLAHOMA 

it?  Ten  dollars  between  you  and  the  children  and 
starvation  !  This  town  here  can't  help  any  one. 
These  people  around  us  can't  Look  at  them  ! 
They're  as  poor  as  we  are.  Five  years  of  crop 
failure  has  hit  them  as  hard  as  it  has  hit  us.  The 
run  takes  place  to-morrow,  and  I  can't  ride.  I  did 
hope  that  I  could  get  a  town  lot  in  Newlands.  I 
don't  believe  that  anything  here  can  outrun  Kentucky; 
but  now — oh,  my  God  !  my  God  !" 

"  Sam  dear,  I'll  ride  Kentucky." 

She  spoke  resolutely,  having  thought  quickly,  and 
her  mind  was  made  up. 

"We've  got  no  side-saddle,"  answered  the  man; 
"you  know  we  sold  it." 

"  I  can  ride  astride,"  said  the  woman,  having  cov- 
ered this  point  also  in  her  mind.  "  I  used  to  ride 
that  way  when  I  was  a  girl.  I've  done  it  hundreds 
of  times,  and  I  can  make  better  time  that  way  now." 

"But,  dear,  you're  a  woman,  and " 

"I  can  wear  your  clothes,  dear.  I'm  almost  as 
tall  as  you  are.  They'll  be  rather  large,  but " 

"  Oh,  Sue  Belle,  I  can't  allow  you  to  go  in  there 
alone,  in  all  that  crowd,  with " 

"  I've  got  to  do  it,  Sam  !  It's  our  last  chance. 
It's  for  the  children,  not  ourselves.  We  could  die. 
We've  done  our  best.  But  think  of  them  !" 

She  rose  from  her  bed  and  crept  over  to  the  back 
of  the  wagon  where  the  little  boy  and  girl  lay  sprawl- 
ing side  by  side  in  the  dreamless  sleep  of  childhood. 
She  pushed  from  the  baby  brows  the  curly  hair 
matted  with  perspiration,  and  stooped  and  kissed 

215 


IN  OKLAHOMA 

them.  She  felt  so  strong,  so  brave,  so  resolute,  as  if 
the  burden  which  she  had  hitherto  shared  with 
Samuel,  or  from  which  he  had  tried  to  spare  her, 
had  suddenly  fallen  upon  her  own  shoulders,  and  in 
some  strange  way  that  she  had  been  given  strength 
to  bear  it. 

Long  time  that  night  husband  and  wife  talked  over 
the  situation.  In  the  face  of  her  determination  the 
man  could  not  do  otherwise  than  give  consent  In 
the  morning,  making  him  as  comfortable  as  she  could, 
she  plodded  up  through  the  dust  to  the  city  and 
bought  from  the  wondering  shopkeeper  a  pair  of 
high  boots  that  fitted  her,  since  it  would  be  impossible 
for  her  to  use  her  husband's  huge  ones.  At  Sam's 
insistent  demand,  she  also  hired  for  five  dollars  a 
poor  stranded  negro,  who  looked  honest  and  faithful, 
to  drive  the  wagon  after  her  into  the  strip.  That 
exhausted  their  ready  money. 

It  was  half  after  eleven  o'clock  when  she  returned 
to  the  wagon.  The  doctor  had  been  there,  and  had 
done  what  he  could  for  her  fevered  husband,  but  his 
arm  still  pained  fearfully.  He  was  up,  however, — he 
had  to  be, — and  seated  on  the  dusty  grass  in  the 
shadow  of  the  canvas  top.  The  children  were  play- 
ing about  him.  Bidding  the  negro  boy  hitch  up 
the  team,  Sue  Belle  slipped  under  the  wagon-cover 
and  dropped  the  curtain.  When  she  came  out  her 
tall  form  was  encased  in  her  husband's  only  re- 
maining suit  of  clothes.  She  wore  a  soft  felt  hat 
with  her  hair  tightly  twisted  under  it  A  loose  shirt, 
trousers,  and  the  new  boots  completed  her  costume. 

216 


IN  OKLAHOMA 

Womanlike,  she  had  tied  a  blue  silk  handkerchief 
— last  treasure-trove  from  her  trousseau — around  her 
neck.  There  was  a  painful  flush  upon  her  thin  face 
and  her  eyes  were  filled  with  tears. 

Samuel  groaned  and  shook  his  head,  the  negro 
boy  gazed  with  mouth  wide  open,  his  eyes  rolling, 
and  little  Sue  Belle  shrank  away  from  her  mother 
garbed  in  this  strange  manner.  Kentucky,  who  had 
been  given  the  last  measure  of  oats  they  possessed, 
did  not  recognize  her  until  she  spoke,  and  then  he  stared 
at  her  in  a  wondering  way  as  she  saddled  and  bridled 
him.  A  hatchet  and  a  tent-peg  tied  securely  to  the 
saddle  completed  her  preparations.  By  her  husband's 
insistence  she  strapped  a  spur  on  her  boot,  although, 
as  she  said,  she  had  never  put  a  spur  to  Kentucky  in 
her  life. 

"You  may  have  to  do  it  now,  dear,"  said  Maxwell, 
and  to  please  him  she  complied. 

Nobody  paid  any  attention  whatever  to  her,  al- 
though the  boundary  was  lined,  as  far  as  eye  could 
see  and  for  miles  beyond,  with  crowds  of  people 
intending  to  make  the  run.  On  the  very  edge  of 
the  strip  the  runners  had  assembled  on  horseback 
or  muleback,  on  bicycles,  in  buggies,  sulkies,  or  in 
road  wagons,  and  there  were  many  dressed  in  jerseys 
and  running  shoes  who  intended  to  make  the  run  on 
foot.  Back  of  them  in  long  lines  were  grouped 
wagons  of  all  descriptions,  mostly  filled  with  women 
and  children.  All  sorts  and  conditions  of  men  were 
represented  in  the  huge  and  motley  throng. 

It  was  a  blazing  hot  day.  The  shifting  horde 
217 


IN  OKLAHOMA 

raised  clouds  of  dust  above  the  line,  from  which  the 
bare,  treeless  prairie  stretched  away  southward  for 
miles.  There  was  not  a  soul  on  it  except  United 
States  cavalrymen,  who  were  spread  out  in  a  long 
line,  each  man  being  placed  at  a  regular  interval 
from  his  neighbor.  To  the  front  of  the  troopers,  the 
captain  in  command  sat  his  horse,  holding  his  watch 
in  his  left  hand  to  determine  the  correct  time,  while 
in  his  right  he  carried  a  cocked  revolver. 

Twelve  o'clock  was  the  appointed  hour.  The 
soldiers  on  either  side  held  their  loaded  carbines 
poised  carefully  and  looked  toward  the  captain,  or,  if 
too  far  away  to  see  him,  toward  the  next  in  line  who 
could.  The  signal  for  the  start  was  to  be  given 
simultaneously  over  the  whole  extended  strip,  stretch- 
ing for  many  miles  along  the  Kansas  border,  by 
means  of  these  troopers.  No  one  was  to  move  until 
the  signal  was  given.  The  soldiers  had  scoured  the 
country  for  days  to  evict  the  "sooners," — those  who 
had  gone  in  before  the  appointed  time  and  attempted 
to  conceal  themselves  that  they  might  secure  the  best 
lots. 

Sue  Belle  turned  and  kissed  the  babies.  Then  she 
bent  toward  Samuel,  but  he  rose  painfully  to  his  feet 
and  stood  flushed  and  feverish  while  he  pressed  her 
to  his  side  with  his  sound  arm. 

"May  God  protect  you,  dear,"  he  said,  trembling 
with  pain  and  agitation. 

"  He  will !  He  will !"  exclaimed  the  woman,  fer- 
vently, strong  in  her  endeavor.  "  Now  be  sure  and 
have  the  wagon  follow  right  after  me.  And  you 

218 


IN  OKLAHOMA 

know  the  doctor  said  he'd  get  you  taken  in  some 
place  in  town  as  soon  as  the  run  began  ;  there'll  be 
lots  of  room  there  then.  I'm  going  to  ride  straight 
down  to  Newlands  and  try  for  a  town  lot.  They'll 
find  me  there.  They  ought  to  be  there  by  evening, 
and  I'll  manage  somehow  till  then." 

"  But  how'll  you  live  till  I  get  there  ?" 

"I  can  cook  or  wash  for  hire  ;  there'll  be  lots  to 
do  there,  and  I'll  write  to  you  at  once.  Don't  worry 
about  me,  dear.  I'm  half  crazy  to  think  of  leaving 
you  ill  and  alone " 

"I  wish  you  had  a  revolver,  Sue  Belle,"  groaned 
Samuel. 

"I  wish  I  had,  too,"  answered  the  woman;  "but 
never  mind,  we  are  in  God's  hands." 

"Oh,  Sue  Belle,  I  can't  let  you  go  !" 

"You  must!  I  must  go  now!  See!  They're 
getting  ready !" 

She  tore  herself  away  from  him  and  spoke  to  the 
colored  boy. 

"Joe,"  she  said,  "for  God's  sake,  don't  fail  us !  I 
leave  you  my  two  little  children  ;  if  you  guard  them 
safely  and  bring  them  to  me  faithfully,  whatever  good 
fortune  comes  to  us  you  shall  share." 

"'Deed  I  will,  suh,  ma'am,  miss, — yes,  suh,"  stam- 
mered the  colored  boy.  "I'll  tek  good  caah  on 
'em,  mista — lady,"  he  added,  in  his  confusion. 

III.— THE  THIRD  FLIGHT 

WITHOUT  another  word  the  woman  sprang  on  the 
horse  and  forced  herself  as  near  the  line  as  she  could. 

219 


IN  OKLAHOMA 

She  had  lost  an  opportunity  of  getting  in  the  very 
front  rank,  but  she  knew  her  horse  and  did  not  care 
for  that  It  wanted  perhaps  a  minute  to  twelve 
o'clock,  and  a  silence  settled  down  over  the  rude 
assemblage,  although  the  excitement  was  at  fever 
heat.  Pushing  and  jostling  would  gain  no  advantage 
now.  The  gray  old  captain  of  cavalry  sat  his  horset 
intently  gazing  at  his  watch.  The  seconds  dragged 
and  the  multitude  waited  breathlessly.  Suddenly  he 
closed  it  with  a  snap,  lifted  his  pistol  in  the  air,  and 
before  the  smoke  of  the  discharge  blew  away  a  quick 
volley  rang  along  the  line. 

With  a  sort  of  a  roar  that  echoed  up  into  the 
heavens  for  miles  the  runners  sprang  forward.  There 
was  one  mighty  simultaneous  surge  of  men  and  ani- 
mals, and  then  the  line  began  to  break.  In  the 
cloud  of  dust  that  arose  instantly,  Maxwell,  forget- 
ful of  his  broken  arm,  strove  vainly  to  follow  with 
his  gaze  Sue  Belle's  flying  figure.  The  next  moment 
he  noticed  that  the  ground  directly  in  front  of  him 
was  deserted.  An  idea  flashed  into  his  mind.  Re- 
gardless of  his  pain,  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  with  his 
uninjured  arm  tore  a  loose  bed-slat  from  the  wagon, 
and,  stepping  across  the  line,  thrust  it  into  the  finest 
quarter  section  of  the  strip.  Nobody  had  thought  of 
doing  this.  The  land  adjoined  the  town  of  Solomon 
City,  and  could  probably  be  sold  without  delay  for  a 
good  sum  of  money.  It  was  his.  They  were  saved  ! 

Oh,  why  hadn't  he  thought  of  it  before  and  pre- 
vented his  wife  from  making  the  run?  But  it  was 
too  late ;  she  was  gone.  Calling  the  negro,  he  had 

220 


IN  OKLAHOMA 

him  take  from  the  wagon  a  few  of  the  boards  which 
had  been  brought  along  for  the  purpose,  and  nail 
them  together  in  a  tent  shape  to  make  him  a  shelter. 
Laying  a  blanket  and  a  quilt  on  the  ground,  and  set- 
ting a  bucket  of  water  therein,  he  crawled  under  it, 
knowing  that  some  one  sent  by  the  doctor  would  cer- 
tainly come  to  him  during  the  day,  and  determined 
to  hold  his  claim  if  he  died  for  it.  Then  he  bade 
Joe  load  the  children  in  the  wagon,  take  them  into 
the  strip,  tell  his  wife  of  his  good  fortune,  and  bid 
her  come  back  to  him,  if  she  could. 

What  of  the  woman  riding  on  with  a  broken  heart, 
yet  with  a  grim  determination  somehow  to  achieve 
fortune  for  her  sick  husband  and  her  children  ?  She 
kept  Kentucky  well  in  hand,  and  yet  easily  passed 
buggies,  sulkies,  runners,  men  on  bicycles,  and  began 
to  overtake  the  horsemen  galloping  southward  over 
the  prairie.  At  first  the  dust  almost  choked  her. 
The  man's  saddle  annoyed  her,  too ;  but  as  she  got 
into  clear  air,  and  began  to  get  accustomed  to  the 
strangeness  of  her  position,  she  regained  her  self-con- 
trol. She  shook  the  reins  lightly  over  the  horse,  and 
he  lengthened  his  stride  and  quickened  his  speed, 
making  swift  progress  for  a  long  time. 

Finally  there  was  no  one  in  front  of  her.  To  the 
right  and  left,  as  far  as  she  could  see,  horsemen 
were  galloping  on  ;  back  of  her  they  trailed  in  an 
ever-thinning  mass.  Most  of  them  she  was  leaving 
rapidly.  Kentucky  was  of  racing  stock.  He  was 
three-quarter-bred  and  game  to  the  core.  The  sight 
of  the  other  horses  running  by  his  side  inspired  him. 


IN  OKLAHOMA 

He  had  been  ridden  in  a  wild  dash  across  the  prairie 
many  a  time,  but  never  before  in  competition  with 
other  horses.  He  took  to  the  race  instinctively,  and 
galloped  on  as  if  he  had  been  trained  to  it  from  the 
beginning. 

She  had  hard  work  to  hold  him,  yet  she  knew  she 
had  a  long  ride  before  her,  and  if  she  did  not  keep 
him  well  in  hand  he  would  be  blown  before  he  went 
half  the  distance  ;  so  she  held  him  down  to  it,  riding 
warily,  watching  carefully  for  prairie-dog  holes,  for  if 
the  horse  should  thrust  his  leg  into  one  he  would 
break  it,  and  that  would  be  the  end  of  him  and  her 
ride  as  well. 

So  she  galloped  on  and  on,  still  in  the  front  line, 
and  with  every  surging  leap  leaving  some  beaten 
runner  behind.  Now  she  drew  ahead,  now  she  led 
the  whole  vast  throng,  and  now  the  horse  was  out  of 
hand.  He  was  running  magnificently,  but  he  had 
gotten  away  from  her,  not  viciously,  but  in  pure  joy 
at  being  free  in  this  mad  race  over  the  prairie.  Pres- 
ently she  looked  back.  The  nearest  rider  seemed  to 
be  half  a  mile  behind  her.  It  was  not  necessary  for 
her  to  get  so  far  ahead,  and  she  tried  again  and 
again  to  check  the  horse,  but  without  success. 

Kentucky  was  running  his  own  race  now.  How 
he  swept  through  the  air !  It  was  magnificent !  The 
exhilaration  of  the  motion  got  into  her  blood.  It 
was  long  since  she  had  had  such  a  ride.  She,  too, 
came  of  racing  stock,  and  the  habit  of  her  sires  reas- 
serted itself  in  her  being.  For  a  moment  she  forgot 
Samuel,  forgot  the  children.  She  forgot  everything 


IN  OKLAHOMA 

but  that  wide  open  prairie,  the  wind  blowing  across 
her  face,  the  rapid  rise  and  fall  of  the  horse  as 
he  raced  madly  on.  Youth  came  back  to  her  and 
the  joy  of  life  ;  failure  lay  behind,  success  before. 
Her  heart  beat  faster  in  her  breast.  Kentucky  gal- 
lantly carried  her  forward.  How  long  had  she  been 
riding?  She  could  not  tell.  They  were  not  at  New- 
lands  yet,  she  was  certain,  so  she  raced  away.  After 
a  long  time  she  looked  back  and  was  astonished  to 
see  two  riders  nearer  to  her  than  any  had  been 
when  she  had  looked  before  ;  all  the  rest  were  miles 
behind. 

The  men  were  mounted  on  broncos, — the  horse 
par  excellence  of  the  West, — wild,  vagrant  descend- 
ants of  old  Spanish  breeds  ;  animals  without  blood, 
without  birth,  without  beauty,  without  style,  without 
training,  mean  and  vicious  in  disposition ;  utterly  use- 
less for  a  short  dash,  and  in  an  ordinary  race  unable 
to  approach  a  thoroughbred  ;  but  with  a  brutal,  in- 
domitable spirit,  a  capacity  for  unlimited  endurance 
and  tireless  ability  to  run  long  distances  and  live  on 
nothing,  and  do  it  day  after  day,  which  made  them 
formidable  and  dangerous  competitors  for  all  other 
horses  of  whatsoever  quality.  They  were  loping 
along  after  her  with  an  ugly  yet  very  rapid  gait, 
which  they  could  keep  up  all  day  if  necessary. 

Sue  Belle  thought  Kentucky's  stride  was  not  quite 
so  sweeping  as  it  had  been  ;  he  seemed  to  be  a  little 
tired  ;  still,  he  was  doing  his  best  manfully.  Although 
he  yet  held  the  lead,  he  was  not  built  for  this  kind 
of  a  run.  She  realized  it,  but  there  was  nothing  she 

223 


IN  OKLAHOMA 

could  do  to  husband  his  strength,  nothing  left  her 
but  to  gallop  on.  And  yet  there  was  lots  of  go  in 
him  yet.  He  was  by  no  means  done. 

The  prairie  rolled  away  back  of  them  as  it  was 
compassed  by  the  flying  feet,  and  still  the  mighty 
ride  went  on.  The  first  bronco  was  nearer  now. 
He  was  not  quite  a  mile  away,  but  the  second  was  a 
longer  distance  behind  the  first  and  falling  back. 
The  rest  were  nowhere.  Of  all  the  throng  only 
these  three  were  in  sight.  Kentucky  was  very  tired. 
Surely  they  must  be  near  Newlands  now  !  The  other 
horse  was  coming  up  fast  She  shook  out  the  reins 
and  called  to  her  own.  The  pursuer  was  nearer  !  He 
was  so  near  that  at  last  Kentucky  realized  that  he 
was  being  pursued.  They  were  almost  there  !  In 
front  of  them  on  the  horizon  she  saw  the  land-office, 
the  station,  and  the  hundreds  of  white  stakes  marking 
the  lots  of  the  town. 

The  other  horse  was  almost  beside  her  now.  Well, 
suppose  he  did  win  the  race  ?  There  were  hundreds 
of  lots  there,  and  the  second  choice  would  probably 
be  as  good  as  the  first.  Should  she  let  him  pass? 
No  !  That  was  not  the  Kentucky  way.  Should  the 
horse  do  it?  No,  again.  She  leaned  forward  over 
the  saddle  and  spoke  to  him  ;  she  drove  the  spur  into 
him  at  last  The  surprised  horse  bounded  into  the 
air  with  a  sudden  access  of  vigor,  and  he  fairly  leaped 
away  from  the  bronco.  It  was  his  final  effort ;  when 
this  spurt  was  ended  he  would  be  done  for.  Would 
it  be  enough  ? 

In  her  excitement  she  turned  and  shouted  back  to 
224 


The  surprised  horse  bounded  into  the  air  with  a  sudden 
access  of  vigor 


IN  OKLAHOMA 

the  man,  she  knew  not  what,  waving  her  hat  in  dis- 
dain. Presently  she  turned  into  what  appeared  to  be 
the  main  street.  Instinctively  as  they  ran  along  she 
chose  what  seemed  to  be  the  best  lot  in  the  pro- 
spective city,  and  then  reined  in  her  panting,  exhausted 
horse  ;  she  sprang  to  the  ground,  tore  the  peg  and 
hatchet  from  the  saddle-bow,  and  drove  the  stake  in 
the  lot.  Not  a  moment  too  soon,  with  not  a  second 
to  spare,  she  had  won  the  race  !  The  wild  bronco 
came  thundering  upon  her  heels.  The  man  jerked 
his  horse  to  his  haunches  by  the  side  of  the  trium- 
phant thoroughbred,  dropped  a  rein  to  the  ground  to 
keep  him,  sprang  from  the  saddle,  and  stepped  toward 
her. 

"  I  want  that  there  lot !"  he  said,  roughly.  "  It's 
the  best  lot  in  the  place.  You  kin  take  somethin' 
else." 

Sue  Belle  rose  to  her  feet.  Her  hat  had  fallen  off 
in  the  wild  ride  and  her  black  hair  floated  over  her 
shoulders.  Excitement  had  put  a  light  in  her  eyes, 
color  in  her  cheeks.  She  looked  handsome,  almost 
young  again, — altogether  beautiful.  The  man  was 
right  She  could  see  that  she  had  succeeded  in 
getting  the  best  lot  in  the  city.  As  she  stood  up 
the  man  stared  at  her  wonderingly.  He  was  a  cow- 
boy,— fringed  trousers,  bearskin  chaparejos,  loose  shirt, 
broad  hat,  Mexican  spurs,  and  all. 

"  Good  God  !"  he  shouted.     "  It's  a  woman  !" 

"Yes,  I  am  a  woman,"  answered  Sue  Belle, 
desperately. 

"Well,  I'm  d— d  !"  he  burst  out 
*s  225 


IN  OKLAHOMA 

"You've  ordered  me  away  from  the  lot,  but — " 
she  went  on,  heedless  of  his  interruption. 

"Well,  gimme  a  kiss,  sis,  an'  you  kin  stay  on  it," 
said  the  man,  with  a  hideous  leer. 

Sue  Belle  looked  around  desperately.  She  was 
practically  alone  on  the  prairie  save  for  this  man  and 
the  other  one,  now  about  a  mile  distant.  The  station 
and  land-office  were  too  far  away  for  her  to  summon 
assistance  from  them.  She  was  absolutely  helpless, 
entirely  in  this  man's  power. 

"Will  you  let  me  alone  if  I  do?"  she  asked,  at 
last 

"Oh,  come,  now,  you're  too  pretty  to  be  left  alone, 
my  dear,"  said  the  man,  coming  closer. 

Resisting  the  impulse  to  shriek,  she  faced  him 
hatchet  in  hand.  With  swift  feminine  instinct  she 
comprehended  him  in  a  glance.  He  was  just  an 
ordinary  kind  of  a  cowboy,  bad  when  his  bad  side 
was  uppermost,  but  capable  of  all  sorts  of  nobility 
and  self-sacrifice  if  his  good  side  could  be  reached. 
She  thought  swiftly  then, — she  had  to.  She  made 
up  her  mind  to  appeal  to  him. 

"Wait,"  she  said;  "don't  come  nearer  until  I 
speak  to  you.  You're  right,  I  am  a  woman.  I  have 
a  husband  and  two  children.  We  had  a  little  fortune 
which  we  put  into  a  farm  in  Cimarron  County  five 
years  ago.  Through  a  succession  of  misfortunes 
we've  lost  every  dollar.  We  have  nothing  except  a 
team  and  this  horse.  We  came  down  here  to  try  to 
get  something  for  our  children.  Yesterday  my  hus- 
band fell  and  broke  his  arm.  He  was  going  to  ride 

226 


IN  OKLAHOMA 

in  here.  He  could  not  do  it.  I  had  to  make  the 
run  in  place  of  him.  I  left  him  alone,  back  there  on 
the  edge  of  the  strip,  with  his  broken  arm.  With 
the  last  ten  dollars  we  had  on  earth  I  bought  these 
boots  and  employed  a  negro  boy  whom  I  never  saw 
before  to  bring  my  little  children  after  me.  I  want 
this  lot.  I  won  it  fairly.  It's  the  best  lot  in  the 
town.  But  you  are  a  man  ;  you  are  stronger  than  I. 
You  may — "  she  flushed  painfully,  "  kiss  me  if  you 
must, — if  you  will  give  me  your  word  of  honor  that 
after  that  you  will  leave  me  this  lot.  You  under- 
stand that  I — I — only  submit  to  it — for  the  sake  of 
the  children  and  for  my  poor  husband." 

Her  eyes  were  full  of  tears  now,  as  she  clasped 
her  hands,  looked  at  him  appealingly,  and  waited 
with  burning  face,  trembling  lips,  and  heaving 
bosom. 

"Ma'am,"  said  the  cowboy,  his  face  also  flushing 
under  his  tan,  as  he  took  off  his  sombrero,  "  I  don't 
want  no  kiss.  Leastways,  I  don't  take  no  kiss  under 
these  circumstances.  You  kin  have  that  there  lot 
I  jist  rode  in  yere  fer  the  fun  of  the  thing.  I  don't 
want  no  lot  nohow.  What'd  I  do  with  it?  Sell  it 
fer  booze.  You  beat  me  on  the  square,  though  if  it 
had  been  five  miles  farther  I'd  a  beat  you.  Them 
Kentucky  hosses — I  'low  he's  a  Kentucky  hoss  ? — 
ain't  no  good  fer  long-distance  runnin'  side  this  flea- 
bitten  bronc.  I  don't  want  no  lot  noways.  You 
stay  right  here  on  that  there  lot,  an'  fer  fear  less'n 
somebody  might  come  along  an'  try  to  make  you 
give  it  up,  I'll  stay  with  you  with  my  gun  handy." 

227 


IN  OKLAHOMA 

"Thank  you  and  God  bless  you,"  said  Sue  Belle, 
gratefully,  looking  at  him  with  swimming  eyes. 

Then  she  put  her  head  down  on  Kentucky's  saddle, 
where  the  horse  stood  cropping  the  short  grass,  threw 
her  arm  around  his  neck,  and  sobbed  as  if  her  heart 
would  break.  The  cowboy  surveyed  her  in  astonish- 
ment and  terror ;  but,  before  he  could  say  anything, 
the  second  man  came  racing  up. 

"  Well,  you  two  young  fellows  have  the  best  lots 
in  the  place,  I  suppose.  I'll  have  to  take  what's 
left,"  said  the  newcomer,  cheerfully.  "  Great  Jupiter ! 
what's  that  fellow  crying  about?" 

"'Taint  a  feller,"  said  the  cowboy,  "it's  a  female, 
a  woman." 

"A  woman!"  exclaimed  the  other.  "Say,  you 
cowboy,"  with  an  ugly  look  on  his  face,  "have  you 
been  making  a  woman  cry?" 

"I  reckon  I  hev,"  answered  the  cowboy,  non- 
chalantly. 

"You  infernal — "  exclaimed  the  man,  stepping 
toward  him. 

"Oh!"  cried  Sue  Belle,  raising  her  head,  "he 
didn't  I'm  crying  for  joy  !" 

As  he  caught  sight  of  her  the  man  bowed  instantly 
toward  her  with  the  grace  of  a  gentleman  who  recog- 
nized under  any  accident  of  clothes  a  lady. 

"My  husband  is  ill,"  said  Sue  Belle,  swiftly  di- 
vining another  friend,  one  of  another  class,  too ; 
"he  broke  his  arm  yesterday,  and  I  had  to  take 
our  horse  and  ride  here  for  him  and  the  two  little 

children,  and  this  gentleman " 

228 


IN  OKLAHOMA 

"Lord  !"  said  the  cowboy,  "I  ain't  no  gent.  I'm 
a  cow-puncher." 

"This  gentleman  came  after  me  and  promised  to 
protect  me  from  everybody.  And  that  is  why  I 
cried." 

"Sir,"  said  the  second  man,  extending  his  hand, 
"  I  beg  your  pardon  for  my  suspicions.  You  are  a 
gentleman." 

"  Nobody  never  called  me  one  before,"  growled  the 
cowboy,  much  embarrassed,  shaking  the  proffered 
hand  awkwardly  but  heartily.  "I  don't  care  fer  no 
lot  myself  an'  I'm  goin'  to  hold  this  lot  next  to  hern 
fer  the  little  kids." 

"Well,  that's  just  about  what  I  came  for,  too. 
I'm  a  student,  a  senior  at  Columbia  College,  New 
York,  madam,"  he  said,  turning  to  Sue  Belle,  "out 
here  for  the  summer  to  look  after  some  of  my  father's 
Kansas  property.  I  thought  I'd  run  down  here  just 
for  the  fun  of  it.  You  said  you  had  two  children, 
did  you  not?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Allow  me.  I  will  hold  the  lot  on  the  other  side 
of  you  for  the  other  one.  So  you  see,  with  this 
gentleman  and  myself,  you  will  be  surrounded  and 
protected  by  the  east  and  the  west." 

Before  the  afternoon  was  half  gone  all  the  lots  in 
Newlands  had  been  appropriated,  lumber  had  been 
brought  in,  portable  houses  and  tents  erected,  saloons 
opened,  a  daily  paper  started,  and  the  young  Bishop 
of  Oklahoma  was  on  the  ground  organizing  a  church  ; 
the  place  was  actually  assuming  the  appearance  of  a 

229 


IN  OKLAHOMA 

city  even  in  so  short  a  time.  The  story  of  Sue 
Belle's  ride  had  been  told  everywhere  by  her  gallant 
flankers,  and  by  common  consent  the  focus  of  activity 
for  the  city  of  Newlands  was  centred  about  those 
three  lots.  The  happy,  grateful  woman  could  have 
sold  them  a  hundred  times  at  an  increasing  price  had 
she  chosen  to  do  so. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  Joe  came  up  with  the  wagon 
and  the  children.  He  had  been  faithful  to  his  trust. 
Sue  Belle  was  very  much  frightened  when  she  learned 
that  her  husband  had  secured  a  claim.  She  knew  he 
would  endeavor  to  hold  it,  and  she  feared  extremely 
for  him  lying  ill  and  alone  on  the  prairie.  Leaving 
the  children  in  the  care  of  some  of  the  women  who 
had  followed  their  husbands  on  the  trail,  with  the 
promise  of  the  whole  town  that  her  three  lots  would 
be  held  inviolate  for  her,  accompanied  by  her  two 
faithful,  self-constituted  guardians,  she  mounted  the 
refreshed  Kentucky  again  and  rode  back  to  her  hus- 
band, lying  alone,  half  delirious,  in  his  shed  on  the 
prairie,  clinging  desperately  to  his  quarter  section. 

Thus  the  tide  changed  at  last  and  now  came 
flooding  in  with  fortune. 


230 


PASSING  THE  LOVE  OF  WOMAN 


THE   END    OF   A    FRONTIER   TELL 


"  I  am  distressed  for  thee,  my  brother  Jonathan :  very  pleasant  hast  thou  been 
unto  me  :  thy  love  to  me  was  wonderful,  passing  the  love  of  women." 

THE  BIBLE 


I 


were  but  two  women  in  the 
camp,  Martie  was  one  of  them,  and 
Martie  was  the  cause  of  it.  The  state- 
ment that  it  was  on  account  of  her 
they  quarrelled,  and  it  was  through  the 
quarrel  the  terrible  state  of  affairs  was  brought  about, 
cannot  be  denied. 

Martie  and  her  mother — her  mother  was  the  other 
woman  in  the  camp,  and,  except  that  she  had  been 
responsible  for  Martie  years  before,  she  didn't  particu- 
larly count — had  come  to  the  rough  little  mining 
settlement  with  Martie' s  father,  a  mining  engineer, 
who  represented  certain  speculative  holdings  in  the 
East  which  needed  personal  attention. 

Before  they  arrived  the  camp  had  been  a  fairly 
peaceable  one  :  the  boys  got  drunk  just  about  so 
often,  once  in  a  while  there  was  a  shooting  affair,  but 
Medicine  Dog  was  as  orderly  a  camp  as  might  have 
been  found  in  Colorado,  until  Martie  came.  It 
was  a  serpent,  I  believe,  that  introduced  the  trouble 

231 


PASSING  THE  LOVE  OF  WOMAN 

in  the  Garden  of  Eden.  I  wonder  what  the  wild 
beasts  thought  of  the  advent  of  Eve.  At  any  rate, 
Martie  first  reformed  and  then  disorganized  Medicine 
Dog. 

Following  her  arrival  there  was  an  ebullition  of 
"boiled  shirts," — come  by  express  in  response  to 
telegraphic  communications  with  Denver,  the  first 
evidence  of  the  reform.  This  was  followed  by  the 
influx  of  a  lone  Chinaman,  imported  for  the  reboiling 
of  the  said  shirts,  his  life,  liberty,  and  the  peaceful 
pursuit  of  his  vocation  over  the  tubs  being  guaranteed 
him  by  the  camp,  the  second  evidence  of  the  reform. 
There  was  a  consequent  amelioration  of  manners, 
proportioned  to  the  prevalence  of  shirt  bosom,  too. 
"Boiled  shirts" — I  use  the  language  of  the  camp — 
are  the  beginning  of  that  civilization  of  which  "  plug 
hats"  are  the  end.  Medicine  Dog  never  got  that 
far,  except  in  its,  dreams  ;  even  Martie  was  not  quite 
equal  to  promoting  the  "plug  hat" 

The  saloon,  too,  felt  the  good — or  evil,  according  to 
the  point  of  view — effect  of  Martie's  presence,  and 
the  wonderful  part  of  it  was  that  Big  Sam,  who  dis- 
pensed liquor,  profanity,  and  on  occasions,  if  neces- 
sary, bullets  from  his  "  Colt's  45,"  from  behind  the 
bar,  bore  the  situation  philosophically.  He  was  as 
much  under  Martie's  sway  as  anybody  else.  That 
was  the  last  evidence  of  the  reform.  And  when  a 
preacher — a  wandering  missionary — came  along,  Big 
Sam  cheerfully,  if  temporarily,  suspended  business 
one  Sunday  morning  and  they  had  services  in  the 
saloon,  the  preacher  on  the  counter  to  conduct  them, 

232 


PASSING  THE  LOVE  OF  WOMAN 

and  Martie  on  a  table  where  they  could  all  see  her, 
with  a  portable  organ  to  lead  the  singing. 

That  was  the  only  time  Martie's  presence  graced 
the  saloon.  The  effect  of  her  presence  there  was 
lasting.  The  boys  could  hardly  swallow  their  whiskey 
during  that  or  the  next  day. 

"  It  tastes  as  if  it  had  sugar  in  it,"  said  Dan  Casey, 
mournfully,  subtly  referring  to  the  sweetening  effect 
of  Martie's  visit.  When  it  came  to  choosing  between 
Martie  and  whiskey,  the  difficulties  of  the  situation 
were  enough  to  appall  the  stoutest  heart  in  Medicine 
Dog. 

Casey  signified  his  change  of  heart  in  the  matter 
of  clothing  by  trimming  his  beard — there  was  no 
barber  in  the  camp  yet — and  by  adding  a  green  tie 
to  his  shirt,  and  when  MacBurns  appeared  with  a 
yellow  silk  streamer  across  his  bestarched  bosom, 
Casey  took  it  as  a  direct  reflection  upon  his  religious 
and  political  views,  and  for  a  time  Medicine  Dog 
threatened  to  resume  its  pristine  liveliness. 

The  quarrel  was  compromised  by  Martie ;  for  when 
she  artfully  caused  the  news  to  be  circulated  that  she 
doted  on  red  or  blue  ties  and  could  not  abide  green 
or  yellow  ones,  Casey  and  MacBurns  discarded  the 
colors  of  their  choice  and  settled  the  affair  by  wear- 
ing Martie's. 

Martie  wore  those  colors  herself.  She  was  the 
reddest-cheeked,  bluest-eyed,  and  bonniest  girl  that 
had  ever  come  across  the  mountains,  so  Medicine 
Dog  swore  unanimously,  at  any  rate.  As  occasion 
served,  the  various  members  of  the  camp  maintained 

233 


PASSING  THE  LOVE  OF  WOMAN 

Martie's  cause  with  strenuous  and  generally  fatal 
effect  to  various  gentlemen  from  other  camps  who 
were  rashly  inclined  to  question  the  assertion.  Martie 
would  have  shone  anywhere  in  the  open  air,  and  in 
womanless  Medicine  Dog  she  was  a  heroine,  a  queen. 
That  was  the  beginning  of  disorganization,  too. 

The  two  men  hardest  hit  were  Jack  Elliott  and  Dick 
Sanderson.  Elliott  was  a  jolly,  happy-go-lucky 
fellow  born  in  the  East,  Sanderson  a  quieter  man 
from  the  middle  West,  who  complemented  his  com- 
panion admirably.  They  worked  a  rich  claim  to- 
gether on  the  mountain  side  with  good  results. 
They  were  steady-going  fellows  and  both  were  dead 
shots  with  the  rifle.  They  were  great-hearted  young 
men,  who  loved  each  other  with  an  affection  that 
some  men  develop  under  certain  circumstances  for 
one  another  until  a  woman  intervenes.  Martie  in- 
tervened. Both  men  fell  in  love  with  her,  and  as 
they  were  men  of  education, — being  fellow-graduates 
of  the  old  University  of  Pennsylvania, — they  were 
not  content  with  the  mere  blind  adoration  which  the 
rest  of  Medicine  Dog  exhibited.  They  wanted 
Martie,  and  as  the  days  grew  longer  and  they  knew 
her  better,  they  wanted  her  more  and  more. 

Each  man  dreamed  dreams  of  a  house  on  the 
mountain  side  overlooking  the  camp  with  Martie  as 
its  mistress  and  with  himself  as  titular,  if  not  actual, 
master.  There  had  never  been  a  wedding  celebrated 
in  the  valley,  and  they  were  both  united  upon  the 
desirability  of  having  one.  Each  one,  however, 
wanted  to  be  the  bridegroom  ! 

234 


PASSING  THE  LOVE  OF  WOMAN 

Martie  recognized  the  difference  between  these  two 
men  and  the  rest  of  the  camp,  although  in  no  way 
did  they  hold  themselves  aloof  from  the  general 
society  of  Medicine  Dog — that  would  not  have  been 
tolerated  by  the  rest  of  the  boys.  She  realized  that 
either  of  them  might  legitimately  aspire  to  her  hand, 
for  they  were  in  an  entirely  different  category  from 
the  rude,  humble,  faithful  adorers  like  Big  Sam  and 
Casey  and  the  boys,  and  Martie  loved  one  of  them. 

But  Martie  was  a  coquette.  It  wasn't  in  a  girl  of 
Martie's  temperament  to  be  otherwise  in  a  camp  with 
a  hundred  men  in  love  with  her,  the  only  other  woman 
being  Martie's  mother,  and  she  didn't  count  when  Mar- 
tie  was  around.  And  by  degrees  that  which  neither 
of  the  men  wished,  which  both  of  them  would  fain 
have  avoided,  was  brought  about.  There  was  a 
dissolution  of  partnership,  a  rupture  of  old  associ- 
ations, a  shattering  of  ancient  friendship.  As  is 
always  the  case,  where  both  had  loved,  they  now 
hated. 

I  said  that  they  were  both  good  shots  with  the  rifle. 
That  hardly  describes  their  capacities.  If  the  mine 
had  failed,  they  could  have  earned  a  fortune  on  any 
vaudeville  stage.  One  of  their  "stunts" — as  the 
boys  called  it — was  really  remarkable.  Such  was 
their  confidence  in  each  other  that  when  one  balanced 
a  little  can  of  whiskey  on  his  head  and  the  other 
bored  a  hole  through  it  neatly  with  his  rifle  at  a  dis- 
tance of  sixty  yards  and  upward  the  spectators 
hardly  knew  whether  to  admire  the  nerve  of  the  can- 
holder  or  that  of  the  marksman  the  more  ;  although 

235 


PASSING  THE\  LOVE  OF  WOMAN 

Casey  deprecated  the  performance  on  account  of  the 
liability  of  the  whiskey  to  go  to  waste  !  They  shot 
equally  well,  and  sometimes  the  one  and  sometimes  the 
other  held  the  target.  It  had  grown  an  old  story 
to  Medicine  Dog,  but  strangers  always  wanted  to  see 
the  feat  performed.  After  the  rupture  between  them 
they  did  it  no  more,  of  course. 

It  was  Martie  who  had  separated  them  and  it  was 
Martie  who  brought  them  together  again.  Both  men 
paid  assiduous  court  to  her,  and  she  positively  re- 
fused under  any  circumstances  to  give  either  a  final 
answer  until  they  became  friends  once  more  and 
swore  to  accept  her  decision  without  prejudice  to  that 
friendship.  Martie  was  a  power,  and  she  had  her 
way. 

A  reconciliation  was  effected,  and  the  two  men 
went  back  to  work  on  their  joint  claim. 

Still,  Martie  hesitated  over  that  decision.  Some 
intuition  told  her  that  no  promise  would  avail  against 
the  satisfaction  on  the  one  hand  and  the  disappoint- 
ment on  the  other  when  she  made  a  choice  ;  but 
make  it  she  must,  and  finally,  after  much  hesitation, 
she  announced  that  she  chose  Sanderson.  His  joy 
could  not  quite  obliterate  in  her  mind  the  impres- 
sion caused  by  Elliott's  grief.  Elliott  was  too  much 
of  a  man,  however,  to  maK'e  any  open  outcry.  He 
believed  that  if  Sanderson  had  been  out  of  the  way 
he  would  have  been  successful,  and  his  belief  was 
probably  correct ;  but  the  matter  had  been  decided, 
and  he  swallowed  his  disappointment  as  best  he 
might  and  bore  Sanderson's  triumph  in  silence. 

236 


PASSING  THE  LOVE  OF  WOMAN 

A  sporty  stranger  came  to  Medicine  Dog  one  day 
shortly  after  the  engagement  was  announced,  and  the 
conversation  in  the  saloon  turned  upon  the  marks- 
manship of  the  camp.  Medicine  Dog  prided  itself 
on  the  ability  of  Elliott  and  Sanderson.  The  stranger 
was  incredulous,  and  wagers  were  made  and  the  boys 
repaired  in  a  body  to  the  Elliott-Sanderson  claim 
and  told  of  the  bets.  Neither  man  was  anxious  for 
the  test,  but  for  the  honor  of  the  camp,  and  because 
of  the  disappointment  of  the  boys  themselves,  they 
felt  that  they  could  not  refuse.  Each  volunteered  to 
hold  the  can  and  each  urged  the  other  to  shoot 
Finally  they  agreed  to  decide  the  matter  by  tossing  a 
coin, — the  usual  method  of  settling  mooted  points. 

Fate  appointed  Elliott  to  use  the  rifle.  He  seized 
the  weapon  and  started  up  the  trail  to  get  his  dis- 
tance. In  that  4  same  moment  a  grim  and  ghastly 
temptation,  proportioned  in  its  appeal  to  the  strength 
of  his  passion,  entered  his  soul.  If  he  killed  Sander- 
son the  field  would  be  free.  Martie's  affections  were 
not  so  deeply  engaged  but  that  she  might  be  won. 
The  idea  whitened  his  lips  and  blanched  his  face  and 
shook  his  hand,  and  it  occurred  at  the  same  moment 
to  Sanderson.  He  realized,  as  he  walked  across  the 
clearing  and  backed  up  against  a  tree,  the  possibilities 
of  the  situation,  and  his  own  dark  face  went  as  white 
as  that  of  his  companion.  But  he  was  game.  His 
emotion  was  not  fear, — at  least  not  fear  for  himself, — 
or  if  it  were  fear,  it  was  for  Elliott.  As  he  prepared 
to  receive  the  shot  he  prayed — and  he  was  not  a 
praying  man  ;  nobody  much  at  Medicine  Dog  was  in 

237 


PASSING  THE  LOVE  OF  WOMAN 

the  habit  of  praying  then — that  Elliott  might  be  equal 
to  resisting  the  terrible  demand. 

As  for  Elliott,  his  soul  was  torn  in  a  perfect 
tempest  He  could  see  nothing  but  the  fact  that 
there  before  him  was  the  man  who  had  won  the 
object  for  which  he  would  have  given  his  soul,  that 
the  man  was  unarmed,  that  if  he  shot  him  no  power 
on  earth  could  ever  connect  him  with  the  crime  of 
murder,  for  he  could  swear  that  it  was  an  accident. 
The  best  of  marksmen  sometimes  make  blunders  ;  all 
do  not  shoot  with  the  continued  accuracy  of  a  William 
Tell.  Satan  possessed  the  man's  soul  for  the  moment. 
Ay,  it  was  the  woman  who  had  tempted  the  man, — 
so  it  was  in  the  Garden  of  Eden, — but  this  time  a 
woman  innocent  and  unwitting.  Poor  little  Martie  ! 
She  could  not  help  it,  after  all. 

These  thoughts  crowded  the  minds  of  the  two 
men  as  they  took  their  stations.  Elliott  faced  San- 
derson and  slowly  raised  his  rifle.  By  a  violent  effort 
he  mastered  his  trembling  as  he  glanced  along  the  pol- 
ished barrel  and  drew  the  exquisite  bead  upon  the  little 
black  spot  on  the  can  where  he  was  to  send  the  bullet 

There  was  something  in  the  air,  in  the  attitude  of 
the  two  men,  in  the  situation,  which  suddenly  broke 
upon  the  consciousness  of  the  onlookers.  They 
shifted  uneasily.  Finally  Big  Sam  burst  out,  amid  a 
chorus  of  approval : 

"  For  God's  sake,  Elliott,  don't  shoot !  You're 
not  in  the  mood  to-day,  old  man.  We'll  willin'ly 
lose  the  bet.  Give  the  stranger  his  money,  boys." 

It  was  Sanderson  who  broke  the  silence. 
238 


PASSING  THE  LOVE  OF  WOMAN 

"What  are  you  afraid  of,  Sam?"  he  cried,  taking 
the  can  in  his  hands.  "By  Heaven,  the  man  doesn't 
live,"  he  shouted,  translating  everybody's  thought  in 
his  impetuosity,  "  that  dare  charge  my  partner  with 
foul  play  !" 

"No,  no,  of  course  not,"  came  in  expostulation 
from  the  crowd  of  spectators. 

"That's  right,  then,"  said  Sanderson,  calmly.  "Go 
ahead,  Jack.  I'll  trust  you." 

He  lifted  the  can  again  to  his  head,  folded  his 
arms,  and  faced  his  friend,  a  little  smile  on  his  lips. 

Once  more  Elliott  lifted  his  gun,  which  he  had 
dropped  during  the  conversation.  This  time  his 
nerves  were  quite  steady.  He  glanced  along  the 
barrel  again.  Should  he  send  a  shot  into  that  smiling 
face? — his  friend's  face?  A  moment  would  deter- 
mine. He  aimed  long  and  carefully  at  the  target  he 
had  selected. 

The  smile  would  have  died  away  from  Sanderson's 
face  had  he  not  fixed  it  there  with  a  horrible  effort 
Elliott  again  so  lingered  over  his  aim  that  the  men 
once  more  started  to  interfere.  The  tense  situation 
was  more  than  they  could  bear.  What  was  the 
matter  ? 

Suddenly  the  devil  that  had  possessed  him  released 
the  miner.  Elliott's  love  for  man  passed  his  love  for 
woman.  He  forgot  Martie  as  he  faced  Sanderson. 
His  courage  came  back  to  him  and  his  clearness  of 
vision.  , 

He  dropped  his  rifle,  and  before  any  one  could 
stop  him,  although  Sanderson  screamed,  "  For  God's 

239 


PASSING  THE  LOVE  OF  WOMAN 

sake,  Jack,  don't  do  it  I"  and  the  men  surged  toward 
him,  he  whipped  out  his  pistol,  pointed  it  at  his  own 
breast,  pulled  the  trigger,  and  fell  bleeding  from  a 
mortal  wound  through  the  right  lung. 

"Men,"  he  gasped  out  brokenly,  "you're  right — I 
was  going  to  kill — him — on  account  of — Martie,  you 
know,  but — but  he  trusted  me  and — I  could — not. 
Yet  I'm  a  murderer — in  the — sight  of  God — and  my 
punishment — is — this.  Dick — don't  tell  Martie." 

There  was  a  look  of  peace  on  his  face  as  they 
gathered  around  him.  They  drew  back  a  little  as 
Dick  Sanderson  knelt  down  and  took  him  in  his  arms. 

"  Jack,  Jack  !"  he  sobbed,  "  I  knew  your  tempta- 
tion, but  I  knew  you  wouldn't  shoot  me,  old  man. 
You  were  braver  than  I.  I  don't  know  what  would 
have  happened  if  the  coin  had  flipped  my  way.  Oh, 
Jack,  I  wish  to  God  you  had  killed  me  !" 

"Now — I'm — forgiven,"  whispered  Elliott,  feebly, 
lifting  his  hand  toward  the  other,  and  then  he  smiled, 
and  then  it  was  all  over. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Sanderson,  crying  like  a  baby, 
as  he  rose  to  his  feet,  "he  died  for  me." 

"And  for  Martie,"  added  Casey. 

"Yes,  and  for  Martie." 

"  Stranger,"  said  Big  Sam,  turning  to  the  man  who 
had  made  the  wager,  "  the  money  is  yourn.  I  wish 
to  God  we'd  never  bet  !" 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  the  stranger,  "  I  don't  take  no 
money  from  no  gents  w'ich  is  won  under  them  cir- 
cumstances, but  if  you  gents  '11  come  down  to  the 

saloon  and  likker  with  me " 

240 


PASSING  THE  LOVE  OF  WOMAN 

"That's  handsome  of  you,  stranger,  but  we  don't 
none  of  us  git  no  likker  in  this  camp  to-day.  That 
there  saloon  closes  in  Medicine  Dog  until  arter  the 
funeral  of  the  finest  and  whitest-hearted  ; gentleman 
and  the  best  shot  that  ever  lived  in  this  camp,"  said 
Big  Sam,  turning  mournfully  away. 


241 


WITH  GREAT  GUNS  AND  SMALL 


"  A  thousand  glorious  actions  that  might  claim 
Triumphant  laurels,  and  immortal  fame, 
Confus'd  in  crowds  of  glorious  actions  lie, 
And  troops  of  heroes  undistinguished  die." 

ADDISON 

Who  cries  that  the  days  of  daring  are  those  that  are  faded  far, 
That  never  a  light  burns  planet  bright  to  be  hailed  as  the  hero's  star  ? 
Let  the  deeds  of  the  dead  be  laurelled,  the  brave  of  the  elder  years, 
But  a  song  we  say,  for  the  men  of  to-day,  who  have  proved  themselves 

their  peers." 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD 


THE  FINAL  PROPOSITIONS 

A  DRAMA  OF  THE  CIVIL  WAR 

"  Whether  'tis  nobler  in  the  mind  to  suffer 
The  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune, 
Or  to  take  arms  against  a  sea  of  troubles, 
And  by  opposing  end  them  ?" 

SHAKESPEARE 

I.— AT  THE  TOP  OF  THE  HILL 

THERE  wasn't  a  harder  body  of  fighters 
in  the  army  of  the  United  States  than 
"Kirke's  Lambs."     The  only  resem- 
blance between  this  modern  regiment 
and  the  famous  body  of  horse  which 
divided    dishonors   with    Jeffreys    after   Sedgemoor, 
nearly  two  hundred  years  before,  was  in  the  name  of 
their  commander,  for  they  were  held  under  too  iron 
a  rule  to  degenerate  into  brutal  and  ferocious  ex- 
cesses.     Besides,  Kirke  and  the  generals  he  served 
under  always  gave  that  body  of  hard  riders  plenty  to 
do,  so  that  they  found  an  easy  vent  for  their  super- 
fluous energies  in  legitimate  fighting,— nf  any  can  be 
so  called. 

Kirke  had  grown  up  with  the  regiment  from  a 
subaltern  to  the  colonel.  Drafts  had  restored  its  de- 
pleted members  from  time  to  time,  but  in  the  spring 
of  1865  the  Civil  War  was  about  over,  and  it  was  not 

245 


THE  FINAL  PROPOSITIONS 

considered  necessary  to  complete  its  quota  by  an  in- 
fusion of  new  blood  then.  There  was  but  a  handful 
of  them  left,  therefore.  The  others — well,  they  said 
the  bodies  of  "Kirke's  Lambs"  blazed  a  pathway 
from  the  Mississippi  to  the  sea. 

Kirke  was  an  iron  man  everywhere  and  in  every- 
thing,— in  his  business,  in  his  regiment,  and  in  his 
family,  which  now  consisted  of  one  solitary  woman. 
The  single  child  who  had  blessed  the  union  had 
died  before  the  war.  The  woman  had  been  left 
alone  for  over  four  years.  Kirke  had  never  left  the 
front  and  what  he  conceived  to  be  his  duty.  He  was 
a  reticent,  self-contained,  undemonstrative  man,  whose 
affection  made  no  show  on  the  surface,  though  the 
current  of  it  ran  very  still  and  deep.  He  actually 
idolized  the  woman  who  bore  his  name  and  had 
borne  his  son.  On  the  death  of  that  son  he  had 
made  no  great  display  of  grief,  though  it  cut  him 
to  the  heart ;  and  in  general  he  gave  little  outward 
evidence  of  any  strong  affection  to  the  poor,  weak 
wife  left  so  much  alone  and  pining,  like  every  woman 
in  a  like  case. 

She  was  a  nervous,  high-strung  little  body,  utterly 
unable  to  see  beneath  the  outward  show ;  not  strong 
enough  to  fathom  Kirke's  depths, — her  heart  was  too 
light  a  plummet, — and  it  was  a  wonder  to  Jack  Broad- 
head,  who  was  Kirke's  dearest  friend  and  the  second 
in  command  of  the  "  Lambs,"  how  she  ever  inspired 
the  devotion  that  he,  with  better  insight,  divined  that 
Kirke  cherished  for  her. 

Well,  what  was  left  of  the  regiment  was  out  scout- 
246 


THE  FINAL  PROPOSITIONS 

ing.  It  had  been  ordered  to  clear  up  the  remains  of 
a  Carolina  brigade  of  Confederates  which  had  been 
making  things  pleasant  for  the  left  flank  of  Sherman's 
army  all  the  way  to  the  sea  and  afterwards.  One 
morning  in  February  a  party  of  some  two  hundred 
and  fifty  troopers,  all  that  was  left  of  the  "Lambs," 
galloped  over  a  rough  road  up  a  narrow  valley 
toward  the  base  of  a  buttress-like,  tree-clad  hill,  upon 
the  top  of  which  lay  ensconced  the  remains  of  that 
brigade. 

They  called  it  a  brigade  in  the  Confederate  army, 
but  it  was  really  no  more  of  a  brigade  than  were 
some  of  Washington's  during  the  Revolution  :  it  was 
a  handful  of  perhaps  one  hundred  and  fifty  desper- 
ate, half-starved,  ragged  men,  whose  rifles  and  the 
bronzed,  tense  look  of  the  hunted  veteran  at  bay 
alone  proclaimed  them  soldiers.  They  lay  snug 
behind  a  hastily  improvised  breastwork  on  the  crest 
of  the  hill.  And  they  had  retreated  just  as  far  as 
they  intended  to  go.  This  was  the  limit 

Above  them  from  an  impromptu  tree-trunk  staff 
flapped  and  fluttered  a  ragged  and  tattered  Confed- 
erate flag, — their  last.  They  might  have  retreated 
farther,  but  to  have  gone  northward  would  have  thrown 
them  into  the  arms  of  a  division  ranging  the  country, 
which  would  mean  their  annihilation  or,  if  they  scat- 
tered, their  disintegration.  Kirke  had  been  pursuing 
them  for  a  day  or  two.  They  knew  his  detachment, 
and  in  a  spirit  of  reckless  pugnacity  they  determined 
to  have  one  good,  square,  stand-up  fight  before  they 
quit  the  game,  which  everybody  now  knew  was  a 

247 


THE  FINAL  PROPOSITIONS 

losing  one  from  the  Confederate  stand-point,  with  the 
inevitable  end  in  plain  sight  They  had  fought  to- 
gether during  four  years  ;  they  would  fight  together 
once  more,  let  the  end  be  what  it  would.  A  danger- 
ous crowd  to  tackle. 

With  a  skill  which  should  have  been  manipulating 
an  army,  Hoyle,  the  brigadier-general  in  command  of 
the  remains,  had  disposed  his  men  so  that  there  was 
only  one  practicable  way  to  attack  them,  and  that  was 
straight  up  the  mountain.  Their  flanks  were  pro- 
tected by  ravines,  and  their  rear  could  not  be  come 
at  save  by  a  detour  of  many  miles  over  the  mountains. 

Kirke,  halting  his  men  at  the  foot  of  the  hill, 
realized  the  situation  as  soon  as  he  saw  it.  Could 
they  take  the  hill  by  a  direct  front  attack  in  the  face 
of  such  a  body  of  men,  desperate  old  soldiers,  who 
could  shoot  as  straight  and  as  fast  as  the  remnants  of 
that  brigade  could  ?  Yet  what  else  was  there  to  do  ? 
He  could  not  retire ;  he  had  been  directed  to  put 
that  brigade  out  of  action,  capture,  or  destroy  it. 
He  could  not  besiege  it  and  starve  it  out  It  was  a 
problem. 

While  he  was  hesitating,  Jack  Broadhead,  who 
had  been  left  behind  at  head-quarters  for  a  day,  came 
galloping  up  with  a  few  troopers  as  his  escort  His 
quick,  soldierly  eye  took  in  the  desperate  situation. 
After  the  necessary  salutes  had  been  exchanged  a 
little  conversation  took  place. 

"That  is  a  strong  position,  Bob." 

"It  is  that,  Jack." 

"  That  fellow  is  a  soldier,  every  inch  of  him." 
248 


THE  FINAL  PROPOSITIONS 

"We  knew  that  before." 

"Yes.     Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?" 

"I  hardly  know.     Think  we  can  take  it?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  Looks  dubious.  But  we've 
got  a  crowd  here  that  will  storm  hell  itself,  if  some- 
body leads,  you  know." 

"  I'll  lead,  but  this  is  worse  than  hell." 

"  Oh,  by  the  way,"  Broadhead  burst  out,  as  a 
flash  of  recollection  came  to  him,  "  I  have  a  letter 
for  you.  It  came  just  as  I  was  leaving  head-quarters." 

He  fumbled  in  the  breast  of  his  jacket,  and  as 
Kirke  stretched  out  his  hand  indifferently  he  gave 
him  the  letter.  The  man's  face  changed  slightly.  A 
look  of  softness  mitigated  the  iron  aspect  of  his  visage. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  in  a  rarely  communicative  moment, 
"  from  my  wife." 

He  tore  it  open.  A  glance  put  him  in  possession 
of  its  contents.  Again  his  face  changed.  It  was 
hard  and  grim  at  best,  but  never,  thought  Broadhead, 
as  he  watched  him,  had  he  exhibited  a  grimmer  and 
harder  look  than  at  this  moment  And  there  was 
a  gleam  almost  of  agony  in  the  man's  eyes.  His  lips 
trembled, — and  for  Kirke's  lips  to  tremble  was  a 
thing  unheard  of!  Broadhead  saw  him  clench  his 
teeth  together  and  by  a  mighty  effort  regain  his  self- 
control.  During  the  struggle  he  had  crushed  the 
letter  in  his  hand. 

After  a  minute  he  unclosed  his  fingers,  smoothed 
out  the  paper,  took  out  his  pencil,  and  wrote  a  brief 
endorsement  upon  the  bottom  of  it,  signed  his  name, 
folded  it  up,  and  thrust  it  in  the  pocket  of  his  coat. 

249 


THE  FINAL  PROPOSITIONS 

"If  anything  happens  to  me,  Broadhead," — and 
there  was  a  harsher  ring  than  usual  in  his  voice, — 
"this  letter  is  to  go  back — to — to  my — the  writer." 

"Very  good,"  said  Broadhead,  who  knew  his 
superior  too  well  to  question  him  as  to  what  had 
occurred.  "  I  take  it  that  you  have  decided  to  attack  ?" 

"Yes.  Men,"  said  Kirke,  wheeling  his  horse  and 
facing  the  iron  veterans  who  had  come  to  love  him  as 
few  soldiers  were  ever  loved  by  their  men,  "  there  is 
that  rebel  brigade  on  the  top  of  that  hill, — what's 
left  of  them.  You  know  what  they  are.  We  have 
tested  their  mettle  in  a  dozen  fights.  Now  we  have 
to  wipe  them  out.  It  is  probable  that  a  large  part  of 
us  will  be  wiped  out  in  the  process,  but  that's  no 
matter.  Dismount  and  tie  the  horses.  We  want 
every  man  in  action.  Leave  your  sabres.  We'll 
depend  upon  carbines  and  revolvers.  We'll  go  up 
and  pull  that  flag  off  that  hill.  The  trees  will  cover 
us  till  we  get  near  the  crest  Halt  there,  form  up, 
and  make  a  rush  for  it  Save  your  fire  until  you  get 
to  the  top." 

The  cheer  that  came  in  response  was  more  like  the 
growl  of  an  angry  animal.  The  men  instantly  fol- 
lowed the  example  of  their  leader  and  dismounted. 
Their  horses  were  tied  to  the  trees  and  saplings  in  the 
valley,  and  the  men,  circling  the  hill  in  a  long  line 
with  Kirke  in  the  centre  and  well  in  the  lead,  fol- 
lowed by  Broadhead  a  short  distance  after,  began  to 
move  up  the  slope  through  the  trees. 

It  was  still  as  death  at  the  top.  There  was  no 
sign  of  life  there  save  the  flag  which  rippled  and 

250 


THE  FINAL  PROPOSITIONS 

fluttered  gayly  in  the  breeze.  It  was  a  bright,  sunny 
morning.  The  cool  touch  of  spring  in  the  air  made  life 
sweet  to  all  that  possessed  it.  In  the  grim  silence  the 
men  clambered  up  the  steep  slope  and  slowly  neared 
the  crest.  Suddenly  there  was  a  puff  of  white  smoke 
from  the  little  log  breastwork  on  the  top.  A  moment 
later  the  crack  of  a  rifle  rolled  down  the  hill,  and  the 
man  nearest  Kirke  fell  on  the  slope,  rolled  against  a 
tree,  and  lay  still.  He  had  rashly  exposed  himself, 
and  he  was  gone.  They  were  good  shots,  those 
Johnnies. 

The  men  as  they  advanced  sought  instinctively  such 
cover  as  they  could,  skipping  from  tree  to  tree.  Every 
once  in  a  while,  however,  one  of  them  would  expose 
himself  in  the  open,  and  the  exposure  was  always  fol- 
lowed by  a  shot  which  more  than  once  caught  its  mark. 
The  crest  was  bare  of  trees,  and  the  command  arrived 
at  the  edge  of  the  clearing  with  some  loss,  and  cau- 
tiously concentrated,  hesitating  a  moment  before 
breaking  out  into  the  open  and  rushing  the  hill. 

"Now,  men,"  said  Kirke,  "you  see  what  we  have 
to  do.  The  quicker  we  do  it  the  better  for  us.  Give 
me  that  flag,"  he  added,  turning  to  the  color-bearer. 
"Gibson," — to  his  bugler, — "stand  by  to  sound  the 
charge  when  I  give  the  signal." 

There  was  nothing  dramatic  about  Kirke,  it  was 
all  a  matter  of  pure  business  with  him  ;  but  the  men 
thought  they  had  never  seen  so  splendid  a  figure  as  he 
when  he  tore  off  his  cap,  jerked  his  revolver  from  his 
belt,  seized  the  flag  with  his  left  hand,  and  stepped 
out  in  the  open. 

251 


THE  FINAL  PROPOSITIONS 

He  nodded  his  head  to  the  alert  Gibson,  and  the 
shrill  notes  of  the  charge  echoed  through  the  hills. 
Ere  it  had  died  away  the  men  heard  their  colonel 
say,  "  Come  on  !" 

It  was  always  Kirke's  way  to  say  "  Come"  rather 
than  "  Go." 

With  a  mighty  roar  they  sprang  from  the  shelter  of 
the  trees  and  dashed  for  the  ridge.  A  terrific  volley 
greeted  them.  With  a  crash  like  thunder,  which 
echoed  and  re-echoed  through  the  hills,  the  Confed- 
erate fire  was  poured  upon  them.  Had  it  not  been 
that  most  of  the  men,  firing  down  the  hill,  overshot 
the  mark,  the  "  Lambs"  would  have  been  blown  into 
eternity.  As  it  was,  many  of  them  fell,  but  the  rest 
plunged  dauntlessly  into  the  smoke  through  which 
the  red  of  the  flag  could  dimly  be  discerned  waving 
in  the  advance. 

Again  the  rifles  of  the  brigade  cracked  out,  and 
this  time  sent  their  messengers  of  death  crashing  full 
into  the  face  of  Kirke's  men.  This  time  the  carnage 
was  terrible  ;  there  were  many  dead,  but  the  blood 
of  the  living  was  up  :  they  would  have  charged  a 
moving  express  train.  They  tore  recklessly  through 
the  smoke  toward  the  top,  following  the  flag. 

Before  the  rifles  could  be  reloaded  the  "Lambs" 
were  at  the  breastwork,  Kirke  still  in  the  lead.  To 
leap  the  log  walls  was  the  work  of  a  moment.  The 
brigade  was  ready  for  them.  The  carbines  cracked 
again  and  again  ;  there  was  a  grim,  ghastly,  awful 
struggle  on  the  top  of  that  hill  around  the  foot  of 
the  Confederate  flag-staff — then  silence. 

252 


THE  FINAL  PROPOSITIONS 

When  the  fighting  stopped  the  few  "  Lambs"  who 
were  left  leaned  panting  on  their  carbines,  blood 
dripping  from  the  gunstocks,  surveying  the  tangled 
mass  of  dead  and  dying.  The  brigade  had  been  an- 
nihilated. 

Broadhead  sprang  to  the  staff  to  haul  down  the 
flag.  He  was  nonplussed  to  find  that  there  were  no 
halliards,  and  that  some  one  had  evidently  climbed  a 
tree,  which  had  been  denuded  of  its  limbs  for  the 
purpose,  and  nailed  the  flag  there.  He  turned  to 
look  for  Kirke,  when,  in  the  smoke  that  yet  covered 
the  field,  he  distinctly  saw  the  man  lift  his  revolver, 
pull  its  trigger,  and  blow  out  his  brains. 

In  the  confusion  after  the  little  battle,  fortunately, 
no  one  noticed  the  action  but  himself.  He  was 
utterly  at  a  loss  to  fathom  the  meaning  of  the  suicide, 
but  he  quickly  resolved  that  no  one  should  know  of  it. 

They  buried  the  brigade  with  the  dead  "  Lambs" 
around  the  foot  of  the  stafif^  and  Broadhead  left  the 
flag  flying  above  them.  He  might  have  chopped 
down  the  tree  and  taken  it,  but  it  seemed  fitting 
that  the  men  who  had  defended  it  should  have  that 
last  honor.  The  wind  would  whip  it  out  in  a  day  or 
two  at  best.  Taking  their  wounded,  they  retraced 
their  steps  as  they  could,  thinking  that  Kirke  had 
been  killed  in  the  action,  an  opinion  which  Broad- 
head's  report  sedulously  fostered.  Broadhead  care- 
fully preserved  Kirke's  revolver,  which  he  took  from 
his  dead  hand,  the  letter,  which  he  found  in  his  breast 
pocket,  his  watch  and  sword,  and  a  lock  of  his  black 
curly  hair. 

253 


THE  FINAL  PROPOSITIONS 


II.— IN   THE   ROOM    IN   THE    NIGHT 

WHEN  the  war  was  over,  and  they  were  mustered 
out  soon  afterwards,  Broadhead  hastened  to  Phila- 
delphia and  drove  immediately  to  Kirke's  house.  It 
was  empty.  There  was  no  sign  of  life  about  it.  As 
he  stopped  on  the  doorstep  in  the  late  afternoon, 
wondering  vaguely  what  had  happened  and  what  he 
should  do  next,  the  door  of  the  adjoining  house 
opened  and  a  woman  came  out,  of  whom  he  made 
inquiry  for  Mrs.  Kirke. 

"  Mrs.  Kirke  !"  said  the  woman,  in  surprise.  "And 
who  may  you  be,  may  I  ask  ?" 

"I  am — I  was — Colonel  Kirke's  dearest  friend." 

"  Is  Colonel  Kirke  dead  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  And  a  good  thing,  too,"  said  the  woman. 

"Madam,"  cried  Broadhead,  indignantly,  "do  you 
realize  what  you  say?" 

"Certainly  I  do.  Don't  you  know  about  Mrs. 
Kirke?" 

"  No.     Is  she  dead  ?" 

"  It  would  be  better  if  she  were,"  she  answered. 
"  She  ran  away  two  months  ago  with  a  man  named 
Allen,  and  after  she  left  she  sent  me  a  letter  enclosing 
the  key  of  her  house  and  requesting  that  I  give  it  to 
Colonel  Kirke  when  he  returned  from  the  war.  So 
long  as  he  is  gone,  I  guess  you  might  as  well  have  it. 
Wait ;  I'll  fetch  it" 

The  woman  turned  back  into  the  house  as  she 
spoke.  This,  thought  Broadhead,  sadly,  was  the  ex- 

254 


THE  FINAL  PROPOSITIONS 

planation  of  it  all.  That  letter.  He  had  never  ex- 
amined it.  He  had  held  it  sacred,  but  now  he  felt  that 
he  must  open  it.  It  might  give  him  some  clew  as  to 
the  whereabouts  of  the  woman.  Yet  he  hesitated. 

When  the  woman  gave  him  the  key  he  entered  the 
lonely  house.  He  went  upstairs  and  sat  down  in 
Kirke's  study,  and  there,  overcoming  his  hesitation, 
he  read  the  letter.  It  was  the  letter  of  a  weak,  hys- 
terical woman,  reproaching  her  husband  for  his  lack 
of  love,  his  seeming  neglect,  for  her  loneliness,  and 
ended  by  saying  that  she  had  gone  off  with  a  man 
who  loved  her,  and  that  he  should  never  see  her 
again.  Kirke's  endorsement  was  brief  and  as  terse 
as  the  man's  character. 

"I  have  been  to  blame,"  he  had  written.  "I  did 
love  you.  I  do.  God  only  knows  how  much.  I 
hope  you  may  be  happy.  We  are  about  to  attack  a 
strong  position.  I  feel  sure  that  after  it  is  over  I 
shall  trouble  you  no  more.  You  can  marry  the 
man — damn  him  ! — and  be  happy." 

How  characteristic  that  was,  thought  Jack  Broad- 
head,  as  he  read, — that  last  touch  !  He  cursed  the 
man  yet  spared  the  woman.  For  a  long  time  Broad- 
head  sat  there  in  that  house,  thinking,  thinking, 
thinking.  He  wondered  if  he  were  the  only  mourner 
for  poor  Kirke.  The  twilight  and  then  the  darkness 
came  stealing  over  the  town,  and  still  he  sat  there. 
By  and  by  he  heard  a  step — a  hesitant,  faltering  step 
— in  the  hallway.  He  remembered  now  that  he  had 
left  the  street  door  open.  He  sat  still  and  listened. 
The  step  mounted  the  stairs.  It  came  along  the 

255 


THE  FINAL  PROPOSITIONS 

short  hall  and  stopped  at  the  entrance  of  the  library. 
He  sat  by  the  open  window.  The  wandering  figure 
was  that  of  a  woman.  She  saw  the  soldier  silhou- 
etted in  the  darkness  against  the  light  from  the  street 
lamp  outside. 

"Robert!  Robert !"  she  cried.  "You  have  come 
back  !  Thank  God  !" 

Broadhead  rose  to  his  feet. 

"No,"  he  said,  quietly,  "it  is  not  Colonel  Kirke." 

"  Mr.  Broadhead  !"  exclaimed  the  woman. 

"Yes,  Mrs. — Mrs. — er — Allen,  is  it  not?" 

"No,  no!"  she  shrieked,  shrinking  back.  "My — 
my  husband?" 

"Do  you  mean  Colonel  Kirke?" 

"Yes.     I  have  no  other." 

"And  Allen?" 

"  He  has  cast  me  off,  turned  me  away." 

"  Haven't  you  heard  ?" 

"  I  have  heard  nothing.  I  have  been  blind — in 
hell — since ' ' 

"Yes,  I  know." 

"But  Robert?" 

"  He  is  dead." 

The  woman  sank  into  a  chair,  shuddering. 

"  When  ?     How  ?     Did  he  get  my  letter  ?" 

"  Yes.  He  was  killed  at  the  capture  of  a  little  hill 
in  North  Carolina  on  the  day  he  received  your  letter. 
Here  it  is." 

"  Did  he  say  anything  before " 

"There  is  a  message  written  in  it" 

"  Give  it  me." 

256 


THE  FINAL  PROPOSITIONS 

Striking  a  light  at  the  gas-bracket,  Broadhead 
handed  her  the  letter.  She  read  it  through  dry-eyed 
while  he  watched  her.  She  had  been  a  pretty,  sweet, 
dainty,  attractive-looking  little  woman,  now  she  was 
a  haggard,  broken  wreck. 

"  And  he  was  killed  by  the  enemy  ?' '  she  asked  at  last. 

"  Madam,"  said  Broadhead,  sternly,  "  you  shall 
hear  the  truth.  He  shot  himself  on  the  top  of  the 
hill  the  day  of  the  battle  with  this  revolver,"  laying 
the  weapon  on  the  table.  "  Here  is  his  sword  and 
his  watch  and  a  lock  of  his  hair.  I  suppose  you 
don't  care  for  them." 

"  I  care  for  everything  that  belonged  to  him  more 
than  Heaven  itself." 

"You  are  free  now,"  said  Broadhead;  "you  can 
marry  your — your — friend." 

"  Never !  He  has  driven  me  away,  cast  me  off, 
and  I  hate  him  !  I  hated  him  from  the  very  moment 
— I  shall  be  free,  anyway.  He  said  nothing  before 
he  died?" 

"Nothing." 

"  And  this  is  all  you  can  tell  me  ?" 

"All." 

"Will  you  leave  me  now?" 

"  What  ?     Alone  in  this  empty  house  ?" 

"It's  my  house,  isn't  it?  I  am  still  Mrs.  Kirke, 
am  I  not?" 

"Yes,  of  course,  but — I " 

"  Will  you  go,  please  ?  You  have  discharged  your 
errand.  You  have  told  me  the  dreadful  truth.  For 
God's  sake,  leave  me  !" 

17  257 


THE  FINAL  PROPOSITIONS 


"  May  I  not  do  something- 


"  Nothing, — nothing.  You  may  come  back  to- 
morrow morning  and  advise  what  to  do.  I  am  alone 
now,  you  see." 

Broadhead  stood  uncertainly  before  her. 

"Go,  go!"  she  pleaded.  "Don't  you  see  that  I 
wish  to  be  alone  for  a  little  ?  You  have  been  very 
good  to  me.  I  thank  you." 

She  hesitatingly  put  out  her  hand  to  him. 

"Won't  you  shake  hands  with  me?"  she  pleaded. 
"  I  did  very  wrong.  I  fell  very  low.  But  I  am  very 
sorry." 

Upon  an  impulse  for  which  he  rejoiced  ever  after, 
Broadhead  clasped  the  thin,  tiny  hand  in  his  own, 
held  it  a  moment,  bent  low  over  it,  and,  with  old- 
fashioned  gallantry,  kissed  it, — that  soiled,  wasted 
hand  ! 

"I  forgive  you,"  he  said,  and  the  voice  of  the 
dead  seemed  to  speak  to  the  woman  through  his 
lips. 

He  turned  and  left  her  alone, — alone  in  the  dark- 
ness, alone  with  her  memories,  alone  with  her  sorrow, 
alone  with  her  repentance,  alone  with  the  weapon. 

She  lifted  the  heavy  revolver  with  trembling  hand. 
There  was  a  single  cartridge  left  in  the  chamber. 

The  next  morning,  in  great  anxiety,  Broadhead 
came  back  to  the  house.  He  found  the  woman  sit- 
ting quite  white  and  still  where  he  had  left  her,  and 
the  revolver  was  empty  ! 


258 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  H.  B.  M.  SHIP 
DIAMOND  ROCK 

THE  TALE  OF  A  STRANGE  SHIP  OFF  MARTINIQUE 

"  Come  one,  come  all !  this  rock  shall  fly 
From  its  firm  base  as  soon  as  I." 

SCOTT 
0 

I.— THE   CONDITION 

«~TBT~  AM  a  passed  midshipman  now,  Dorothy  dear, 

and  I'm  certain  to  get  my  swab " 

"Swab,    Mr.     Maurice?"     interrupted    the 
young  lady,  archly. 

"Yes,  my  epaulet — a  lieutenant's  commission 
— this  year ;  you  know  what  I  mean,  Miss  Venour. 
And,  oh,  I  do  love  you  so  !  With  my  pay  and  what 
father  will  allow  me  and  what  your  grandfather  will 
allow  you  we  can  get  along, — that  is,  if  you  love  me 
well  enough  to  try  it." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  The  young  lady  looked 
down  at  her  feet,  while  the  arm  of  the  young  man 
stole  around  her  waist.  Tired  at  last  of  waiting, 
though  the  position  was  a  charming  one,  the  young 
officer  recalled  her  to  herself  by  a  slight  squeeze, 
which  was  answered  by  a  delightful  little  shriek  from 
the  girl. 

259 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  H.  B.  M.  SHIP  DIAMOND  ROCK 

"What  was  it  you  were  saying?"  she  asked,  hur- 
riedly drawing  away. 

"  I  was  telling  you  that  I  loved  you,"  he  answered 
with  dignity,  releasing  her,  "  and  asking  you  to  marry 
me  when  I  got  to  be  a  lieutenant,  if  you  love  me. 
You  do,  don't  you,  Dorothy?"  abandoning  his  state- 
liness  and  bending  toward  her  entreatingly. 

"Ye — es,  I — I — I  think  so,  Mr.  Maurice — James, 
then,"  she  continued,  in  compliance  with  a  depreca- 
tory wave  of  his  hand,  "or  Jim — or — "  she  hesitated 
a  moment  and  added  the  word  "dear." 

His  face  brightened.      He  sprang  toward  her  in 
boyish   delight;    but   she  checked    his    rush  with  a' 
pretty  little  motion,  and  continued,  calmly, — 

"  You  are  a  very  nice  boy  indeed,  but  you  are  so 
young,  you  know " 

"  Young  !"  he  replied  ;  "  I  am  nineteen,  and  you 
are  only  seventeen  yourself!  You  are  scarcely  old 
enough  to  be  married." 

"I  am,"  she  said,  promptly;  "I  am  old  enough 
for  anything." 

"Old  enough  for  me,  Dot?  Say,  'Yes!'  You 
know  I'm  sure  to  come  out  a  lieutenant  from  this 
cruise,  and  then  you  will  be  a  year  older,  too,  you 
know,  and — oh,  Dot,  do  take  me  !  You'd  better 
take  me  now,  you  know ;  you  might  not  have  a 
chance  next  year.  I've  been  wounded  once,  and 
something  tells  me " 

He  paused  gloomily. 

"  Oh,  Jim,"  she  cried,  "  don't  speak  of  it !  But 
grandfather  will  never  consent  You  know  perfectly 

260 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  H.  B.  M.  SHIP  DIAMOND  ROCK 

well  a  lieutenant's  pay  does  not  amount  to  anything, 
and " 

"You  are  right  there,  Dot,"  broke  in  a  deep  voice, 
as  a  stout,  red-faced  old  man  in  the  uniform  of  a 
captain  in  the  navy  came  strolling  out  upon  the  beach 
from  behind  a  clump  of  rocks. 

"  Captain  Venour !"  exclaimed  the  young  officer, 
starting  back  in  dismay. 

"  Oh,  grandfather,  you  have  been  listening  !  How 
shocking  !"  cried  Dorothy. 

"  Listening  !"  snorted  the  old  man,  contemptuously, 
with  a  nice  mixture  of  metaphors  ;  "  why,  this  young 
calf  here  has  been  roaring  out  his  love  like  the  bulls 
of  Bashan." 

"Sir — sir!"  exclaimed  Maurice,  flushing  painfully, 
"I  love  your  granddaughter " 

"  Stale  news,  lad.  Everybody  within  half  a  mile 
of  this  knows  it  now,"  said  the  old  man.  "Why,  the 
smack  of  your " 

"Grandfather!"  interrupted  Dorothy,  promptly, 
emulating  her  lover' s  blush. 

"And  I  want  to  marry  her,  sir,  with  your  per- 
mission." 

"  Marry  her  !"  shouted  Captain  Venour.  "On  the 
pay  of  a  midshipman  !  You  young " 

"I'm  a  passed  midshipman  now,  sir,"  interrupted 
Maurice,  "and  I'm  sure  to  be  a  lieutenant  when  I 
come  back  from  this  cruise  to  the  West  Indies, — and 
she  says  she  loves  me  and  that  she  will  wait ;  didn't 
you,  Dot?" 

"  Miss  Venour,  sir!"  roared  the  old  man,  "in  my 
261 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  H.  B.  M.  SHIP  DIAMOND  ROCK 

presence !  Did  you  make  any  foolish  promises  to 
this  young  man,  Dorothy?" 

"  I — ye — es,  sir;  I  said  I — I'd — I'd  wait,"  answered 
Dorothy,  reluctantly. 

"Yes?  Well,  you  will ;  you'll  wait  until  he  gets 
to  be  a  captain.  A  man  isn't  fit  to  be  married  until 
he  has  had  command  of  a  ship  and  three  or  four 
hundred  men  ;  he  doesn't  know  how  to  manage  a 
wife.  Look  at  me  !  I  married  when  I  was  a  mid- 
shipman and — and — I  know." 

"But,  sir,  it  will  be  fifteen  years  before  I  am  a 
captain  !  Why,  you  weren't  a  captain  yourself  until 
you  were  forty,  and  I  can  never  hope  to  equal  your 
record." 

"No  more  you  won't,"  said  the  old  man,  some- 
what mollified  by  the  adroit  compliment 

"  Oh,  grandfather,  not  forty  years  !  We  couldn't 
wait  until  then !  Why,  I'm  only  seventeen  now,  sir, 
and  James — Mr.  Maurice — is  only  nineteen.  Please, 
sir " 

Dorothy  dropped  on  her  knees  on  the  sand  before 
him,  and  at  a  motion  of  her  hand  Maurice  did  like- 
wise. 

"Get  up,  get  up,  you  young  fools!"  said  the  old 
man  ;  "suppose  some  one  should  see  us  !" 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Dorothy,  grasping  the  skirts  of  his 
coat  tightly;  "not  until  you  modify  your  terms. 
You  know  he  loves  me,  and — and — and  I  am  so 
sorry  for  him,"  she  added,  ingenuously. 

"Well,"  said  the  captain,  to  whom  Dorothy  was 
as  the  apple  of  his  eye,  "  I'll  knock  off  a  little.  He 

262 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  H.  B.  M.  SHIP  DIAMOND  ROCK 

can  marry  you  when  he  has  command  of  a  ship.  If 
he  is  lucky,  he  might  be  made  a  lieutenant-com- 
mandant in  five  years.  Now,  up  with  you  !" 

The  young  people  struggled  to  their  feet  and 
looked  sadly  at  each  other. 

"  Five  years  !"  ejaculated  the  midshipman,  mourn- 
fully. 

"It's  better  than  twenty,  Jim,"  said  Dorothy, 
cheerfully.  "Can't  you  wait?" 

"  Wait !      I    will   wait   forever,    Dot,    I    love   you 

"  Waugh !"  roared  the  old  captain,  "are  you  going 
on  with  these  proceedings  before  my  very  eyes,  at 
my  age?  It's  indecent!  There,"  he  added,  turning 
his  back  to  them  and  walking  away  a  few  steps,  at 
the  same  time  pulling  an  old  silver  watch  from  his 
pocket,  "  I'll  give  you  just  five  minutes ;  and  take 
my  advice,  youngster,  when  you  cut  out  a  prize 
under  convoy  of  a  ship-of-the-line,  don't  make  so 
much  noise  about  it." 

"  I'll  get  a  command  inside  of  a  year,  Dot  darling, 
or  die  in  trying,"  whispered  the  young  man. 

"  I  would  rather  have  you  alive  without  a  command 
than  dead  with  one,  Jim,"  remarked  Dorothy  through 
her  tears  as  the  old  captain  came  back  toward  them. 

"  Now,  I  take  it,  you  have  just  about  time  to  make 
the  harbor  around  yonder  point  where  your  ship  is 
waiting  for  you,"  he  said.  "You've  said  your  good- 
bys,  and  you've  got  your  answer,  so  you'd  better  up 
anchor  and  make  a  run  for  it.  I'll  take  care  Dot 
keeps  her  word,  and  mind  you  keep  yours  !  Good- 

263 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  H.  B.  M.  SHIP  DIAMOND  ROCK 

by  and  good  luck  to  you.  If  you  are  half  as  im- 
pudent in  the  face  of  the  enemy  as  you  have  been  to 
me  here,  you  will  get  the  ship  in  a  week." 

The  young  midshipman  clasped  the  proffered  hand 
of  the  retired  old  sea-captain,  wrung  it  warmly,  looked 
longingly  at  Dorothy  dissolved  in  tears  on  her  grand- 
father's shoulder,  and  then  turned  and  made  his  way 
slowly  down  the  beach  toward  the  town  and  the 
harbor. 

II.— THE    UNDERTAKING 

H.  B.  M's  ship-of-the-line  Centaur,  74,  Captain 
Murray  Maxwell,  flying  the  broad  pennant  of  Com- 
modore Samuel  Hood,  was  cruising  to  and  fro  off 
the  island  of  Martinique,  in  front  of  Fort  Royal 
Bay,  to  blockade  the  port  and  capture  in-  and  out- 
bound vessels.  One  afternoon  in  the  month  of 
January,  1804,  the  commodore  and  the  captain  were 
standing  at  the  break  of  the  poop  discussing  a 
problem.  They  had  just  been  in  chase  of  a  fast- 
sailing  French  frigate,  which  had  escaped  them  by 
boldly  running  under  the  lee  of  Diamond  Rock, 
whither,  through  ignorance  of  the  channel  and  want 
of  pilots,  they  dared  not  follow.  The  thing  had 
happened  half  a  dozen  times  in  the  past  month,  and 
the  commodore  naturally  was  exasperated. 

The  rock  itself  was  a  huge  mass  of  naked  stone, 
about  a  mile  in  circumference  at  the  base,  and  tower- 
ing out  of  the  water  to  a  height  of  some  six  hundred 
feet,  in  shape  resembling  a  rounded  haystack.  On 
the  southward  side  the  rock,  sloping  precipitously 
down  to  the  water's  edge,  was  absolutely  unscalable. 

264 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  H.  B.  M.  SHIP  DIAMOND  ROCK 

The  east  and  southwestern  sides  were  so  broken  as  to 
be  equally  inaccessible,  and  the  breakers,  smashing 
with  tremendous  force  on  the  western  end,  made 
landing  difficult  or  impossible.  The  officer  of  the 
watch  that  afternoon,  who  happened  to  be  our  quon- 
dam midshipman,  James  Wilkes  Maurice,  who  had, 
by  a  series  of  fortunate  accidents  and  some  gallantly 
as  well,  been  appointed  a  lieutenant  a  month  since, 
could  not  help  overhearing  the  conversation. 

"It's  too  bad!"  said  the  commodore.  "The 
scoundrels  get  under  the  lee  of  that  rock  every  time 
and  make  a  harbor,  and  I  don't  see  how  we  can  pre- 
vent it  unless  we  get  a  battery  of  heavy  guns  up  on 
the  rock  ;  but  there  appears  to  be  no  way  up." 

"If  you  please,  sir,"  said  Maurice,  turning  about 
and  saluting  in  great  trepidation,  for  the  junior  lieu- 
tenant was  a  very  small  man  indeed  beside  the  com- 
modore, "there  is  a  way  up,  sir.  When  I  was  a 
reefer  on  the  Cerberus  she  was  cruising  around  here, 
and  one  calm  day  a  party  of  us  received  permission 
to  go  ashore  on  that  pile  of  stone,  and  we  managed 
to  reach  the  top." 

"  Oho  !"  exclaimed  the  commodore,  his  eyes  bright- 
ening. "And  could  you  take  a  gun  up?" 

"  Not  the  way  we  went,  sir." 

"Well,  then,  I  am  afraid  your  experience  will  not 
be  of  service." 

"But,  sir,  if  I  might  make  so  bold,  sir — "  con- 
tinued the  junior  lieutenant,  hesitatingly. 

"Heave  ahead!  Out  with  it!"  said  the  commo- 
dore. 

265 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  H.  B.  M.  SHIP  DIAMOND  ROCK 

"  In  calm  weather,  sir,  there  is  no  surf  on  that 
point,  and  it  would  be  quite  possible,  I  should  think, 
to  take  the  Centaur  in  close  to  the  shore,  and  then 
with  a  hawser  and  a  traveller  from  the  main-topmast 
head  we  might  make  shift  to  land  some  guns." 

"  Capital !"  exclaimed  the  commodore.  "  What 
do  you  think  of  it,  Maxwell  ?" 

"It  is  for  you  to  say,  sir,"  replied  the  cautious 
captain.  "  The  weather  is  fine  enough  to-day,  and 
we  might  try  it.  It  will  be  risking  His  Majesty's 
ship,  though,  sir,"  he  remarked,  gravely. 

"  Fetch  me  a  glass,"  said  Sir  Samuel,  turning  to 
the  midshipman  of  the  watch.  When  it  was  brought 
to  him  he  took  a  long  look  at  the  base  of  the  cliff, 
observing  a  little  stretch  of  sandy  beach,  upon  which 
the  breakers  usually  tumbled  with  tremendous  fury. 
This  morning,  fortunately,  it  seemed  calm. 

"  I  will  answer,  sir,  that  there  is  deep  water  under 
the  clifif,"  ventured  Maurice  at  this  moment. 

"Will  you  answer  for  the  flag-ship,  too,  sir?"  asked 
the  commodore,  keenly. 

"  No,  sir,  I " 

"  I  shall  have  to  answer  for  that  myself,"  he  con- 
tinued. "  We'll  try  it,  Captain  Maxwell ;  the  wind's 
off  shore,  the  sea  smooth  as  a  mill-pond.  We'll 
anchor  the  Centaur  close  under  the  lee  of  the  rock 
off  the  west  side  there.  Call  away  a  boat.  Let  Mr. 
Maurice  go  in  charge,  and  I  myself  will  accompany 
him.  We'll  examine  into  the  situation." 

The  investigation  under  the  commodore  proved  the 
practicability  of  the  bold  scheme  proposed  by  the 

266 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  H.  B.  M.  SHIP  DIAMOND  ROCK 

young  lieutenant.  The  Centaur  was  anchored  close 
under  the  lee  of  the  cliff,  and  with  incredible  labor 
five  of  her  big  guns — three  long  twenty-four-pounders 
and  two  eighteen-pounders — were  landed  on  the  rock. 
One  end  of  a  heavy  cable  was  fastened  to  the  main- 
topmast  and  the  other  was  secured  to  the  top  of  the 
cliff  Up  this  by  means  of  a  traveller  the  heavy  guns 
were  dragged.  One  of  the  twenty-four-pounders  had 
been  fitted  upon  a  circular  carriage  commanding  the 
landing-place,  another  was  mounted  on  the  northeast 
side,  and  the  third  upon  a  platform  about  midway  up 
the  rock.  The  two  eighteen-pounders  were  planted 
on  the  very  summit  and  commanded  an  immense  dis- 
tance. When  the  commodore  had  decided  to  under- 
take the  manning  of  the  rock,  Maurice  had  sought 
an  interview  with  him  and  explained  his  reason  for 
aspiring  to  the  command  of  the  landing-party,  which 
would,  in  the  natural  course  of  events,  be  given  to  a 
much  older  man. 

"  So  your  marriage  with  little  Dot  Venour  depends 
on  your  commanding  something  with  a  pennant  flut- 
tering above,  does  it?  Lord!"  roared  the  commo- 
dore, bursting  into  deep  sea  laughter,  "  and  you  want 
to  hoist  your  juvenile  broad  pennant  on  this  rock, 
and  then  you'll  want  to  claim  all  sorts  of  privileges, 
you  young  dog  !  I  didn't  think  that  baby  was  old 
enough  to  be  married  yet,  nor  you  either.  Get 
along  with  you  !  I  don't  know  what  my  old  friend 
Venour  would  say  if  I'd  be  a  party  to  this  mad  pur- 
pose of  yours  by  giving  you  the  command  of  this 
expedition.  There,  lad,  go  to  your  duty ;  I'll  think 

267 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  H.  B.  M.  SHIP  DIAMOND  ROCK 

about  it,"  added  the  commodore,  exploding  with 
mirth  again. 

He  thought  so  well  about  it,  however,  that  when 
all  preparations  had  been  made,  to  the  very  great 
disgust  of  the  older  officers  of  the  ship,  he  detailed 
Maurice  to  the  command  of  the  party.  On  account 
of  his  lack  of  rank,  his  junior  officers  were  all  mid- 
shipmen. He  and  the  four  midshipmen  and  one 
hundred  and  twenty  men  and  boys,  including  some 
of  the  best  seamen,  composed  the  landing  party, 
with  four  months'  supply  of  provisions  and  ammu- 
nition. As  the  Centaur  got  under  way  and  beat  up 
toward  Fort  Royal,  Maurice  tore  open  an  envelope 
the  commodore  had  handed  him  when  he  bade  him 
good-by.  It  was  a  commission  and  orders  to  com- 
mand H.  B.  M's  sloop-of-war  Diamond  Rock,  five 
guns  and  one  hundred  and  twenty  men  !  He  almost 
fell  over  the  precipice  in  surprise  and  delight  at  the 
situation. 

The  rock  was  entirely  barren  except  on  the  north- 
west side,  where  a  little  depression  existed  in  which 
there  was  a  group  of  stunted  wild  fig-trees.  There 
were  two  or  three  caves  half-way  up  to  the  summit, 
dry  and  airy,  the  floors  covered  with  fine  sand,  of 
which  the  officers,  chose  the  smallest,  the  men  an- 
other, and  all  hands  made  themselves  very  much  at 
home.  The  crew  was  divided  into  watches,  a  station 
bill  made  out,  lookouts  appointed,  and  the  regular 
routine  of  a  man-of-war  begun. 

They  had  not  long  to  wait  to  demonstrate  their 
usefulness.  Two  days  after  the  departure  of  the 

268 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  H.  B.  M.  SHIP  DIAMOND  ROCK 

Centaur  the  lookout  on  the  top  of  the  rock  saw  a 
frigate  under  a  tremendous  press  of  canvas  endeavor- 
ing to  run  between  the  rock  and  the  shore  and  make 
for  Fort  Royal.  Far  away,  and  coming  along  like  a 
gigantic  white  cloud,  was  a  ship  which  was  presently 
made  out  to  be  the  Centaur.  A  drummer-boy,  not 
the  least  important  member  of  the  crew  of  the  Dia- 
mond Rockt  beat  to  quarters,  the  men  sprang  to  their 
stations,  and  the  huge  guns  were  loaded  and  carefully 
trained  on  the  unsuspicious  French  ship.  She  came 
booming  along  at  a  terrific  pace.  Maurice,  with  a 
coolness  remarkable  in  one  so  young,  waited  until 
she  was  well  in  range,  and  then,  taking  careful  aim, 
with  the  long  twenty-four  half-way  up  the  summit, 
ignited  the  priming. 

With  a  terrific  roar  the  ball  sped  straight  to  its 
mark.  They  were  too  far  away  to  hear  the  crash  as 
it  struck  the  fore-topmast,  but  the  fall  of  the  mast 
and  the  confusion  on  the  ship  were  plainly  visible. 
With  hearty  British  cheers  the  rest  of  the  battery  let 
drive  at  the  oncoming  frigate.  One  of  the  eighteens 
carried  away  the  jib-stay  and  the  jib-halliards.  There 
was  great  consternation  on  the  French  frigate.  No 
one  had  dreamed  of  an  enemy  in  that  quarter,  and 
before  they  could  make  up  their  minds  what  to  do  a 
second  broadside  was  poured  upon  them  from  the 
rock.  Clearly  the  pass  was  untenable.  The  captain 
of  the  frigate  was  a  good  seaman,  and  he  promptly 
turned  about  and  made  for  the  sea  again.  He  hoped 
to  escape  the  Centaur  by  his  speed,  but  the  old  ship- 
of-the-line  had  the  wind  and  heels  of  him  now  and 

269 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  H.  B.  M.  SHIP  DIAMOND  ROCK 

she  came  rushing  down  upon  the  frigate.  After  a 
long  pursuit  and  a  gallant  endeavor  the  French  cap- 
tain found  himself  under  the  Centaur's  guns.  There 
was  nothing  to  do  but  to  surrender.  Throwing  a  prize 
crew  on  board,  the  Centaur  ran  off  toward  the  rock. 
When  near  enough  to  be  seen  a  string  of  flags  flut- 
tered out  from  the  mizzen-topgallant  yard-arm,  and 
the  delighted  youngsters  on  the  rock  read  the  follow- 
ing: 

"Well  done,  Captain  Maurice  !" 

The  men  on  the  Centaur  might  have  almost  heard 
the  cheers  with  which  the  men  and  boys  on  the  rock 
greeted  the  signal.  It  had  leaked  out  somehow  that 
the  young  lieutenant  whom  they  all  loved,  and  to 
whose  forethought  the  manning  of  the  rock  was  due, 
was  in  some  way  fighting  for  his  sweetheart  as  well  as 
his  country,  and,  above  all  men,  the  sailor  loves  a 
lover. 

Scarcely  a  week  passed  without  a  brush  with  the 
enemy,  and  some  months  elapsed  before  the  French 
learned  that  the  passage  which  they  had  used  with 
so  much  skill  and  success  was  finally  closed  to  them, 
and,  save  at  night,  no  vessels  attempted  the  channel 
— not  many  then.  There  had  been  plenty  of  excite- 
ment during  this  period,  but  now  all  was  changed. 
The  Centaur  and  other  ships  sailed  away,  and  the 
crew  on  the  rock  had  little  or  no  communication  with 
the  shore  for  over  a  year  longer.  Their  provisions 
and  water  were  replenished  every  quarter  by  a 
frigate,  which  was  despatched  for  the  purpose. 
Otherwise  they  seemed  to  have  been  forgotten.  The 

270 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  H.  B.  M.  SHIP  DIAMOND  ROCK 

novelty  of  the  situation  had  worn  off,  and  the  monot- 
ony had  begun  to  pall  upon  them  dreadfully.  Mau- 
rice and  his  young  officers  were  at  their  wit's  end  to 
find  employment  for  the  men  and  keep  them  in  good 
spirits.  The  discipline  was,  of  course,  sternly  main- 
tained, but,  sailor-like,  the  men  tired  of  the  shore  and 
pined  for  the  unsteady  deck  of  a  ship  ;  in  addition, 
Maurice  longed  for  Dorothy.  He  had  not  been  able 
to  send  a  word,  nor  had  he  received  a  line  from  that 
young  lady.  He  was  too  proud  to  write  to  the  com- 
modore by  one  of  the  provisioning  ships,  and  ask 
for  relief. 

One  evening  about  the  middle  of  May,  1805,  when 
the  provision-ship  was  about  due  on  its  quarterly  trip, 
the  watchers  on  the  rock  saw  a  great  fleet  of  sixteen 
sail-of-the-line,  seven  frigates,  three  corvettes,  and  a 
number  of  smaller  vessels,  all  flying  the  French  flag, 
running  through  the  channel  toward  Fort  Royal. 
With  joy  in  their  hearts  at  the  opportunity  for  action, 
the  five  guns  on  the  stony  sloop-of-war  promptly 
opened  fire  upon  the  great  French  and  Spanish  fleet 
of  M.  de  Villeneuve,  who  was  prosecuting  his  attempt 
to  befool  Nelson  by  giving  him  that  mad  chase  across 
the  Atlantic  and  back  which  ended  at  Trafalgar. 

The  French  ships  returned  the  fire  as  they  came 
within  range  of  the  rock,  and  their  tremendous  broad- 
sides kicked  up  a  deal  of  noise  and  cut  up  the  face 
of  the  rock  somewhat,  but  did  no  other  damage. 
The  crew  of  the  rock  made  excellent  practice,  and, 
considering  their  force,  rendered  the  passage  inter- 
esting to  the  French.  The  ennui  of  the  intervening 

271 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  H.  B.  M.  SHIP  DIAMOND  ROCK 

months  was  forgotten.  Villeneuve  was  furious. 
Never  before  had  one  lieutenant,  four  midshipmen, 
and  one  hundred-odd  men  (some  of  them  had  died 
during  the  sojourn)  engaged  successfully  a  splendid 
fleet  of  line-of-battle-ships.  Toward  evening  one 
belated  Spanish  ship  unsuspiciously  attempted  to 
anchor  near  the  rock,  but  she  was  soon  driven  off 
with  much  loss.  The  elated  Englishmen  saw  the 
fleet  anchor  at  Fort  Royal,  now  called,  in  deference 
to  the  republican  form  of  government  of  France, 
Fort  de  France.  Villeneuve,  who  was  furiously 
angry,  learned  from  the  French  at  Fort  de  France 
that  the  formidable  barrier  was  held  by  a  handful  of 
men,  so  he  determined  to  capture  the  rock,  and  for 
that  purpose,  on  the  29th  of  May,  he  detached  a 
squadron  consisting  of  the  Pluton  and  Berwick,  74' s, 
the  frigate  Sirene,  36,  the  Argus,  16,  an  armed 
schooner,  and  eleven  gun-boats  under  the  command 
of  Commodore  Cosmao,  of  the  Pluton,  with  four 
hundred  troops-of-the-line. 

The  rock  had  been  blockaded  ever  since  the  ar- 
rival of  the  fleet  at  Martinique.  When  Maurice  saw 
the  ships  bearing  down  upon  him  at  break  of  day  on 
the  3 1st  of  June,  1805,  he  knew  what  to  expect 
Owing  to  the  fact  that  the  supply-ship,  which  was 
due,  had  not  arrived, — because  of  the  blockade, 
doubtless,  and  the  presence  of  the  great  French 
fleet, — Maurice  unfortunately  found  himself  with  but 
a  scanty  supply  of  powder  and  shot.  He  determined 
to  abandon  two  of  the  lower  guns  and  concentrate 
his  force  about  the  eighteen-pounders  and  the  twenty- 

272 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  H.  B.  M.  SHIP  DIAMOND  ROCK 

four-pounder  half-way  up.  Spiking  the  lower  guns, 
thus  destroying  the  battery,  he  withdrew  to  the  sum- 
mit of  his  command.  For  two  days  the  ships  were 
anchored  near  by,  the  mild  weather  permitting  them 
to  come  close  in.  During  this  period  the  French 
poured  an  unremitting  hail  of  shot  upon  the  stone 
batteries  of  the  rocky  vessel.  Maurice  and  his  men 
answered  the  fire  slowly  but  with  great  precision  from 
their  three  remaining  guns.  Three  of  the  gun-boats 
and  two  other  small  boats  were  sunk,  and  the  larger 
ships  were  much  cut  up.  The  young  captain  might 
have  protracted  his  defence  indefinitely  had  not  his 
powder  entirely  failed  him.  Observing  the  English 
fire  to  slacken,  the  French  finally  landed  their  troops 
on  the  beach  at  the  foot  of  the  rock.  The  last 
charge  of  the  twenty-four  hurled  its  iron  missive  of 
death  among  the  Frenchmen  huddled  on  the  beach. 
Then,  like  a  flock  of  goats,  they  sprang  at  the  cliffs 
and  clambered  up  the  steep  sides  of  the  rock,  which 
the  fire  of  the  ships  cleared  with  showers  of  grape- 
shot.  A  feeble  musketry-fire,  for  the  small  cartridges 
had  been  torn  to  contribute  powder  for  the  great 
guns,  met  them,  but  they  came  boldly  on.  As  they 
swarmed  over  the  rock  Maurice  and  some  of  the 
older  men  struck  at  the  advancing  French  with  their 
swords.  The  two  men  nearest  him  were  killed  and 
he  himself  was  badly  wounded.  There  was  nothing 
left  but  surrender.  A  French  officer  hauled  down 
the  English  flag.  The  young  captain  had  lost  his 
first  command.  H.  B.  M's  sloop-of-war  Diamond 
Rock  had  passed  into  the  hands  of  Admiral  Villeneuve. 

18  273 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  H.  B.  M.  SHIP  DIAMOND  ROCK 

When  the  young  captain  recovered  his  senses  in 
the  cabin  of  the  Bucentaur,  the  flag-ship  of  the 
French  admiral,  bound  for  Europe  again,  he  did  not 
know  whether  or  not  he  had  won  Dorothy  Venour. 


III.— THE   REWARD 

EARLY  in  November,  a  week  or  so  after  the  great 
battle  of  Trafalgar,  which  the  young  captain  witnessed 
from  the  deck  of  the  French  ship,  from  which  in  the 
confusion  he  escaped  to  the  Victory,  where  he  did 
good  service  until  the  close  of  the  action,  he  was 
landed  at  Portsmouth  once  more.  In  his  pocket  he 
bore  two  documents,  one  dated  a  year  and  a  half 
back,  and  the  other  but  yesterday.  Led  by  an  in- 
stinct which  he  could  not  explain,  instead  of  going 
up  to  Captain  Venour's  house  on  the  hill,  he  made 
his  way  through  the  town  and  along  the  beach  toward 
that  sheltered  little  cove  from  which  he  had  taken  his 
departure  two  years  before.  As  he  turned  the  point 
of  rocks  he  saw  a  lonesome  little  figure  seated  on  the 
sand,  resting  her  chin  in  her  hand  and  looking  mourn- 
fully out  over  the  sea.  It  was  Dorothy.  He  stole 
up  behind  her,  caught  her  under  the  arms,  lifted  her 
to  her  feet,  and  kissed  her  before  she  could  utter  a 
scream.  When  she  recovered,  however,  she  made  up 
for  her  startled  silence. 

"Oh,  Jim  dear!"  she  cried,  precipitating  herself 
into  his  arms  with  a  shriek  of  delight,  "  you  look  like 
a  real  man  now  !" 

"I  am  a  man,  Dot  darling,"  he  replied,  his  eyes 
274 

\ 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  H.  B.  M.  SHIP  DIAMOND  ROCK 

brightening  as  he  saw  her  radiant  face  peeping  out 
from  the  brown  curls  near  his  shoulder. 

"Well,  sir,"  exclaimed  the  deep  voice  of  Captain 
Venour,  coming  down  the  beach, — singular  how  he 
always  happened  to  be  around  at  inopportune  moments, 
— "you  may  be  a  man,  but  have  you  a  command?" 

"Oh,  grandfather,  he  has  command  of  me,"  cried 
Dorothy,  archly,  breaking  away  from  her  lover. 
"Won't  I  do?" 

The  old  captain  whistled. 

"  I've  had  command  of  a  ship-of-the-line  and  I've 
tried  to  command  one  woman,  .but  give  me  the  ship- 
of-the-line,"  he  answered,  reflectively.  "No,  you 
won't  do." 

"Captain  Venour,"  remarked  the  young  man, 
gravely,  "  I  have  had  a  command,  sir,  and  in  accord- 
ance with  your  agreement  I  have  come  to  claim 
your  granddaughter." 

"What  was  your  command,  my  lad?"  asked  the 
captain,  facetiously,  "a  dinghy  or  a  jolly-boat?" 

"  Neither,  sir." 

"A  cutter,  then?" 

"No,  sir." 

"A  brig  or  a  sloop-of-war ?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Good  heavens!"  exclaimed  the  captain;  "you 
don't  mean  to  say  you  have  been  in  charge  of  a 
frigate  or  a  ship-of-the-line,  a  boy  like  you  ?" 

"  No,  sir,  not  quite,"  said  the  young  man. 

"  Well,  what  did  you  command  ?  Did  it  have  two 
masts?" 

»75 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  H.  B.  M.  SHIP  DIAMOND  ROCK 

"  It  didn't  have  any  masts,  sir." 

"  No  masts  !" 

"  No,  sir  ;  it  was  a  rock." 

"  Good  Lord !"  ejaculated  the  old  man,  sitting 
down  feebly  and  staring.  "A  rock?  What  do  you 
mean  ?  Are  you  trifling  with  me  ?  That  is  no  way 
to  gain  the  lass." 

"Well,  sir,"  answered  Maurice,  gravely,  "here  are 
my  orders  authorizing  me  to  command  His  Majesty's 
sloop-of-war  Diamond  Rock,  five  guns  and  one  hun- 
dred and  twenty  men.  It's  a  great  stone  hill  off 
Martinique.  I  commanded  it  for  one  year  and  six 
months,  at  the  end  of  which  we  beat  off  M.  de  Ville- 
neuve's  great  fleet,  and  were  only  captured  when  our 
powder  gave  out,  by  a  heavy  squadron  which  bom- 
barded us  for  two  days.  I  was  wounded " 

"Oh,  Jim,  wounded  !"  cried  Dorothy,  with  a  shriek 
of  alarm,  rushing  toward  him,  while  the  dazed  old 
man  made  no  movement  to  prevent  her. 

"It  is  nothing,  Dot  darling,"  said  the  young  fellow, 
manfully,  but  not  making  the  slightest  effort  to  avoid 
the  caress.  "  I  was  wounded  and  taken  on  board  the 
French  flag-ship  Bucentaur,  from  which  I  escaped  to 
the  Victory  at  Trafalgar,  where  Nelson  beat  the  French 
fleet" 

"Hey?  What?"  cried  the  old  man.  "Beat  the 
French?  But,  of  course,  we  always  do  that" 

"I  saw  him  killed,  sir,"  added  young  Maurice. 

"Who  killed?"  exclaimed  Captain  Venour,  in 
astonishment 

"  Lord  Nelson,  sir  ;  right  in  the  height  of  the  battle." 
276 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  H.  B.  M.  SHIP  DIAMOND  ROCK 

"  Good  God  !"  cried  Captain  Venour.  "  Nelson 
gone  ?  He  was  a  reefer  under  me  on  the  Hinchin- 
brook.  It  can't  be  possible  !" 

"Yes,  sir,  it  is,"  replied  the  young  captain. 

There  was  a  long  pause. 

"What  next,  sir?"  asked  Captain  Venour. 

"Well,  sir,  I  swung  myself  on  board  the  Victory 
in  the  action.  Captain  Hardy  recognized  me  and 
gave  me  a  gun  division  whose  lieutenant  had  been 
killed,  and — and  that's  all.  No,  sir ;  here's  a  paper 
from  Lord  Collingwood,  who  succeeded  to  the  com- 
mand after  Lord  Nelson  died,  recommending  me  to 
be  appointed  post-captain,  and — and — that's  all,  sir. 
May  I  have  Dorothy  now,  sir?" 

"You  may,"  answered  the  captain,  feebly,  utterly 
overcome  by  the  astonishing  recital.  "  Any  man  who 
has  commanded  a  six-million-ton  rock  and  fought  at 
Trafalgar  can  have  anything  he  wants, — if  Dorothy  is 
willing." 

Dorothy  signified  unmistakably  that  she  was 
willing. 

"Poor  Nelson!"  continued  the  old  captain.  He 
rose  slowly  to  his  feet  and  turned  away  again, 
saying, — 

"I  will  turn  my  back  once  more,  young  people, 
and  mind,  do  it  softly  !" 


277 


"WHEN  LOVELY  WOMAN  STOOPS  TO 
FOLLY" 

THE  FATE  OF  A  COQUETTE  OF  1815 

"  When  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly, 
And  finds  too  late  that  men  betray, 
What  charm  can  soothe  her  melancholy? 
What  art  can  wash  her  guilt  away  ?" 

GOLDSMITH 

MARIAN   FLETCHER  was  certainly 
beautiful  enough  to  excuse  the  jeal- 
ousy of  any  man  who  loved  her, — 
which,  by  the  way,  most  men  who 
knew  her  did  !     She  was  sufficiently 
a  woman  also  to  realize  her  own  beauty — indeed,  did 
ever  daughter  of  Eve  possess  a  charm  of  which  she 
lacked  knowledge  ?     Even  the  most  absolute  ingenue 
is    conscious    that   she    is    an   ingenue,   and    Marian 
Fletcher  was  by  no  means  that     And  her  wit  and 
humor  were  not  the  least  of  her  charms.     She  was 
gayety  personified,   light-hearted,   healthy   and    red- 
cheeked,  and  joyous — quite  a  new  woman  for  1815, 
in  fact  ;  and  that,  too,  in  an  artificial  age  in  which 
languor  and   pallor,   megrims  and  vapors  were  the 
fashion,  "  Nice  customs  curt'sy  to" — beautiful  women, 
and  Marian  had  a  fashion   of  her  own.     One  word 
described  the  sum  of  her  qualities, — fascination  ! 
Even  her  best  friends  were  forced  to  admit  that  she 
278 


"  WHEN  LOVELY  WOMAN  STOOPS  TO  FOLLY" 

was  a  bit  of  a  coquette,  however.  Indeed,  if  the 
truth  were  told,  from  the  crown  of  her  black  hair, 
which  brought  to  mind  the  usual  simile  of  the  raven's 
wing,  down  to  her  beautiful  little  feet,  she  was  all  of  a 
coquette.  She  loved  liberty,  she  loved  love,  she  loved 
lovers.  In  addition  to  all  of  these  things  it  might  be 
said  that,  in  her  secret  heart,  she  loved  Robert 
Gardner.  Whether  she  loved  him  more  than  she  did 
the  other  three  was  a  question  which  she  had  not 
settled  to  her  own  satisfaction,  and  about  which  Gard- 
ner himself  was  fearfully  undecided. 

She  had  said — but  then  she  made  many  perjuries 
before  the  laughing  Jove.  She  had  permitted  him  to 
enjoy  the  fleeting  and  most  unsatisfying  pleasure  of 
pressing  his  lips  upon  her  brow.  He  believed  that 
this  was  a  step  farther — he  would  have  resented 
furiously  any  suggestion  to  the  contrary — than  any 
other  suitor  had  gone.  It  was.  She  had  allowed 
him  to  persuade  her  into  a  sort  of  an  engagement, 
but  the  tie  resulting  was  about  as  indefinite  as  could 
be  imagined.  With  him — he  was  a  sailor  and  his 
similes  were  nautical — it  was  a  hempen  cable  which 
held  him  to  her  like  a  ship  to  a  bower  anchor.  With 
her  it  was  a  daisy  chain,  ready  to  part  at  the  first 
strain,  and  the  strain  was  near  at  hand. 

To  celebrate  the  closing  of  the  war  of  1812,  Colonel 
Fletcher,  an  old  Revolutionary  veteran  and  the  father 
of  the  fair  Marian,  had  assembled  a  house-party  at  his 
fine  old  place  on  the  Hudson.  He  was  a  widower  with 
a  son  and  a  daughter.  The  son  had  been  an  officer  in 
Scott's  army — a  major — who  had  greatly  distinguished 

279 


"WHEN  LOVELY  WOMAN  STOOPS  TO  FOLLY" 

himself  in  the  Niagara  campaign.  Among  others  who 
had  gladly  accepted  the  veteran  colonel's  hospitality 
were  two  friends  o  young  Major  Fletcher,  who  had 
been  college-mates  with  him  at  Harvard.  One  was 
Robert  Gardner,  a  young  lieutenant  in  the  navy,  and 
the  other  was  John  Mason,  a  young  Virginian,  who 
was  a  captain  in  the  army.  The  young  men  had 
been  guests  of  Colonel  Fletcher  before  the  war,  and 
they  had  known  Marian,  whom  they  both  loved,  for 
several  years.  Their  wooing,  interrupted  by  the  de- 
mands of  the  service,  was  at  once  renewed  under  the 
favorable  circumstances  of  their  meeting.  Gardner 
was  a  gay,  athletic,  dashing  young  sailor, — blue-eyed, 
curly-haired,  sunny  in  disposition ;  Mason,  on  the 
contrary,  was  tall  and  very  slender,  dignified  and 
quiet,  with  a  temper  as  dark  as  his  complexion.  One 
was  impulsive,  bold,  impetuous  ;  the  other  cool  and 
determined,  with  an  undercurrent  of  sleeping  passion 
in  his  being ;  both  were  in  the  highest  sense  gentle- 
men. 

The  relations  between  the  two  men,  at  first  friendly, 
had  become  markedly  strained  as  their  courtship 
proceeded,  though  no  open  rupture  had  yet  occurred. 
Mason  could  not  but  be  aware  of  Marian's  preference 
for  Gardner ;  yet,  as  she  had  not  allowed  the  latter  to 
announce  their  engagement,  with  dogged  persistency 
the  Virginian  continued  to  proffer  his  attentions. 
Truth  to  say,  these  latter  were  not  so  unwelcome  to 
the  fair  Marian  as  might  be  imagined.  She  had 
entered  into  a  quasi-engagement  with  Gardner,  yet 
she  was  by  no  means  averse  to  the  devotion  of  her 

280 


*'  WHEN  LOVELY  WOMAN  STOOPS  TO  FOLLY" 

melancholy  yet  handsome  suitor,  and  her  conduct  be- 
tween the  two  was  not  altogether  above  reproach.  It 
was  a  joyous  and  delightful  game, — also  a  dangerous  ! 

On  the  evening  in  question  it  seemed  that  she 
had  gone  quite  too  far,  and  that  even  the  hempen 
cable  would  not  stand  the  strain  which  tautened  it. 
During  the  day  a  pretty  little  lover's  quarrel,  which 
she  had  wilfully  brought  about  to  test  her  power,  had 
culminated  in  an  open  rupture.  Laughing  at  Gard- 
ner's pleas,  she  had  devoted  herself  to  Mason, — or  had 
allowed  Mason  to  devote  himself  to  her,  rather, — 
raising  that  young  man  to  the  seventh  heaven  of  de- 
light. She  had  ridden  with  him  in  the  afternoon, 
gone  to  supper  with  him  at  night,  and  danced  with 
him  most  of  the  evening  at  the  party  which  had  been 
arranged. 

Manoeuvring  her  out  on  the  porch  toward  the 
close  of  the  evening,  Gardner  unwisely  endeavored  to 
take  her  to  task.  Goaded  beyond  his  power  of  re- 
straint by  her  flirtation,  he  assumed  an  authority  over 
her  for  which  he  had  no  warrant.  Where  he  should 
have  pleaded  and  entreated,  he  threatened  and  com- 
manded. Miss  Marian  snapped  her  fingers  at  him 
metaphorically — she  was  too  well  bred  to  do  such  a 
thing  physically.  Rendered  desperate  by  her  ob- 
duracy, his  anger  passed  all  bounds  and  his  words 
followed  suit.  The  mock  quarrel  on  her  part  became 
a  real  one.  She  repudiated  him  entirely,  broke  her 
engagement  flatly,  declared  frankly  that  she  did  not 
love  him, — and  in  the  act  of  declaration  she  was  con- 
vinced that  she  did, — and  with  her  head  high  in  the 

281 


"  WHEN  LOVELY  WOMAN  STOOPS  TO  FOLLY" 

air,  a  brilliant  flush  on  her  cheek,  and  a  sparkle  of 
defiance  in  her  eye,  left  him.  He  leaped  from  the 
porch  and  disappeared  under  the  trees  ;  she  ran  right 
into  the  arms  of  John  Mason  coming  out  of  the  house 
to  seek  her. 

He  saw  her  agitation,  of  course,  and  in  her  anger 
she  let  slip  words  which  gave  him  a  perfect  clew  to 
the  cause  of  it  Before  she  realized  what  she  did,  she 
said  that  which  she  would  have  given  worlds  to  recall 
— afterwards  ;  then  she  was  too  much  excited  and  in- 
dignant to  care.  Gardner  had  insulted  her.  She 
hated  him. 

"  I  hate  him,  too,"  said  Mason,  bending  his  head, 
his  black  eyes  aflame  in  the  shadow  of  the  porch, 
"  and  the  depth  of  my  hatred  is  proportioned  by  my 
love  for  you,  Marian.  Give  me  leave,  dearest,  to 
make  your  cause  mine." 

His  voice  with  its  soft  Southern  tones  was  very  per- 
suasive and  thrilling  in  the  moonlight ;  there  was  such 
passion  and  yet  such  respect  and  adoration  in  its 
accents.  He  bent  before  her  so  deferentially  and  so 
pleadingly.  There  was  such  a  contrast  in  his  gentle- 
ness to  the  hectoring  she  had  just  undergone,  that  she 
yielded  in  spite  of  herself.  With  bent  head  she  mur- 
mured words — she  hardly  knew  what  Faintly  re- 
sisting him,  he  swept  her  to  his  breast  and  pressed  a 
kiss,  not  upon  her  forehead,  but  upon  her  lips. 

At  the  instant  a  step  on  the  porch  interrupted 
them.  Marian,  already  repentant,  sprang  from 
Mason's  encircling  arms  and  turned  to  see  Gardner 
coming  toward  them.  He  had  wandered  about  the 

282 


"  WHEN  LOVELY  WOMAN  STOOPS  TO  FOLLY" 

grounds  miserably  after  they  had  parted  and  had 
returned  to  sue  for  pardon,  but  what  he  had  just  seen 
had  changed  his  mind.  His  face  was  convulsed  with 
passion.  Disregarding  Marian,  he  stepped  toward 
Mason,  his  hand  upraised  as  if  he  would  strike  him 
down.  There  was  murder  in  his  heart.  The  girl 
screamed  and  then  turned  and  fled  in  dismay. 
She  had  broken  her  engagement  with  a  man  whom 
she  now  realized  she  loved  with  all  her  heart,  and  she 
had  promised  herself  to  a  man  whom  she  knew  she 
did  not  love.  She  had  been  bitterly  unjust,  in  her 
folly,  to  both  men. 

The  dancing  for  the  evening  was  already  over.  The 
women  of  the  party  were  retiring  to  their  rooms,  and 
Marian,  sick  at  heart,  slipped  away  and  sought  her 
chamber  also.  Throwing  herself  dressed  upon  her 
bed,  she  thought  it  over.  Nothing  would  happen 
until  the  morning,  she  reasoned,  and  then  she  would 
make  a  clean  breast  of  it  to  her  father.  He  would 
extricate  her  from  her  difficulties. 

Mason  on  the  porch  was  already  master  of  himself. 

"Don't  strike  me  !"  he  said  to  Gardner,  "or  I  shall 
kill  you  where  you  stand  !  Besides,  'tis  not  neces- 
sary. I  understand  your  feelings  and  I  intend  to 
give  you  satisfaction,  but  the  cause  of  our  quarrel 
must  not  be  known.  The  reputation  of  the  woman — 
I  intend  to  make  my  wife  must  not  be  the  subject 
of  public  comment.  Control  yourself,  sir,  I  beg  of 
you,"  he  added,  smiling  triumphantly,  as  the  other 
stamped  his  foot  "  Let  us  repair  to  the  house.  The 
ladies  will  have  retired,  and  we  can  easily  manufacture 

283 


"WHEN  LOVELY  WOMAN  STOOPS  TO  FOLLY" 

sufficient  public  cause  for  a  quarrel.  I  will  take  it 
upon  myself.  Come  no  nearer!"  he  said,  thrusting 
his  hand  into  the  pocket  of  his  coat  as  Gardner 
swayed  toward  him.  "  I  warn  you  that  I  am  armed. 
On  my  word,  I  will  shoot  you  like  a  mad  dog  !  I 
will  submit  to  nothing  from  you.  I  am  giving  you  a 
chance  for  your  life  and  affording  you  every  satis- 
faction as  it  is." 
,  Gardner  controlled  himself  with  a  mighty  effort. 

"You  are  right,"  he  gasped  ;  "'tis  not  through  fear 
that  I  do  not  strike  you,  but,  as  you  say,  Miss  Fletcher's 
name  must  not  become  the  subject  of  gossip.  You 
shall  never  marry  her !  I  intend  to  kill  you  !" 

"That's  as  may  be,"  answered  the  other;  "let  us 
not  come  to  blows  about  it.  I  am  not  used  to  such. 
'Tis  vulgar  brawling.  Control  yourself.  I  take  your 
arm,  so.  Though  'tis  hateful  to  both  of  us,  we  must 
appear  to  be  on  friendly  terms." 

Arm  in  arm  the  two  rivals  entered  the  hall  and  no 
one  dreamed  of  the  deadly  hatred  which  sundered 
them.  After  the  departure  of  the  women  Colonel 
Fletcher  and  his  guests  sat  down  to  spend  the  rest  of 
the  evening — morning  rather — between  cards  and  the 
bottle.  Chance,  or  their  own  contrivance,  made 
Mason  and  Gardner  partners.  Neither  of  the  two 
partook  of  the  wine.  As  the  heat  of  Gardner's 
passion  abated,  he  realized  the  necessity  for  acquiring 
his  wonted  calmness.  He  was  a  famous  shot  with  the 
pistol,  a  weapon  with  which  Mason  was  not  so 
familiar,  and  he  believed  that  if  he  had  an  oppor- 
tunity he  could  kill  him.  He  fully  intended  to  do  so. 

284 


"WHEN  LOVELY  WOMAN  STOOPS  TO  FOLLY" 

It  was  an  age  in  which  duels  were  common  and  life 
was  cheap.  Mason  was  to  afford  the  provocation  and 
give  the  challenge.  He  said  he  would  do  so  and  he 
was  a  man  of  his  word.  Then,  as  the  challenged 
party,  Gardner  would  have  the  choice  of  weapons. 
As  the  game  proceeded,  Mason,  who  had  made  sev- 
eral irritating  remarks  upon  his  partner's  playing, 
finally  remarked,  sneeringly : 

"That's  a  cowardly  deal,  Gardner.  Why  don't 
you  play  more  boldly,  sir?" 

"Cowardly  !"  cried  Gardner,  rising. 

"That's  what  I  said.  But  then  what  could  you 
expect  from  a  man  who  had  been  an  officer  on  the 
Chesapeake  ?" 

The  allusion,  of  course,  was  to  the  capture  of  the 
American  frigate  Chesapeake  by  the  British  frigate 
Shannon,  which  was  almost  the  solitary  instance  of 
English  naval  success  in  the  war,  but  for  which 
Gardner  was  in  no  way  responsible. 

"  By  gad,  sir  !"  shouted  Gardner,  "  if  I  play  like  a 
coward,  you  play  like  a  booby !  Your  tactics  are 
what  one  would  naturally  expect  from  a  soldier  whose 
chief  exploit  was  in  leading  the  flying  troops  from 
Bladensburg !"  another  American  defeat  and  a  dis- 
graceful one  at  that,  although  Mason  had  there  fought 
bravely  until  wounded. 

"You  shall  wipe  out  this  insult,  sir!"  responded 
Mason,  rising  in  his  turn. 

"Yes,"  said  the  other,  "in  the  only  possible  way." 

"Gentlemen!  Gentlemen!"  interrupted  some  of 
the  others. 

285 


"WHEN  LOVELY  WOMAN  STOOPS  TO  FOLLY" 

"What's  this?"  exclaimed  the  colonel,  leaving  his 
table  and  approaching  them.  "Brawling  in  my 
house  among  my  guests  ?  I  will  have  none  of  it !" 

"Sir,"  cried  Gardner,  "you  are  a  soldier.  You  are 
all  soldiers  here ;  I  alone  am  a  sailor.  This  person 
called  me  a  coward,  taunted  me  with  the  loss  of  the 
Chesapeake.  By  heavens,  he  shall  apologize  !" 

"What?"  said  the  colonel.  "Did  you  make  use 
of  such  intemperate  language,  Captain  Mason?" 

"  I  did,  sir,"  responded  the  other,  coolly,  "  and  I 
may  add  that  he  accused  me  of  leading  the  retreat  at 
Bladensburg,  which  is  a  damnable  lie,  sir !  I  chal- 
lenge him  instantly  !' ' 

"  He  but  anticipates  my  own  desire,"  said  Gardner. 
"  You  see,  sir,  the  matter  must  be  arranged.  As  the 
challenged  party  I  name  pistols,  and  if  the  time  is 
agreeable  I  appoint  this  moment  for  the  encounter. 
Major  Fletcher  will  perhaps  honor  me  by  acting  as 
my  second." 

"And  Captain  Lee,"  said  Mason,  turning  to  one  of 
the  others,  "will,  I  am  sure,  act  for  me." 

"Gentlemen,"  said  the  colonel,  retiring  with  the 
seconds,  "cannot  this  unhappy  affair  be  arranged?" 

"It  is  impossible,  sir,"  replied  Lee  and  his  son, 
who  had  consulted  a  moment  or  two  with  their  re- 
spective principals. 

"There  must  be  more  behind  this  than  appears." 
•     "  That's  as  may  be,  colonel ;  there  is  enough  on 
the  surface,  anyway ;  the  two  men  have  deliberately 
insulted  each  other,  and  the  duel  must  go  on,"  replied 
Captain  Lee. 

286 


"  WHEN  LOVELY  WOMAN  STOOPS  TO  FOLLY" 

"  I  entirely  agree  with  Lee,  father,"  assented  Major 
Fletcher. 

The  preliminaries  were  soon  arranged.  The  party 
had  assembled  in  the  dining-room.  The  long  table 
was  pushed  to  one  side  of  the  room.  The  colonel's 
duelling  pistols  had  been  loaded  under  the  supervision 
of  the  seconds  and  each  contestant  had  received  his 
weapon.  At  one  side  of  the  apartment  the  men  of 
the  party  were  gathered  ;  one  of  them  held  a  lighted 
candelabrum  high  in  the  air  to  light  both  men  equally. 
All  other  lights  in  the  room  had  been  extinguished. 
Pistol  in  hand  at  the  table  stood  Colonel  Fletcher. 
Six  paces  were  measured  in  the  centre  of  the  room  by 
the  seconds,  and  marked  off  by  two  playing-cards  laid 
on  the  floor.  Mason  and  Gardner  were  placed  opposite 
each  other,  each  one  with  his  right  foot  touching  the 
card  marking  his  station.  It  had  been  agreed  between 
the  seconds  that  the  colonel  should  pronounce  the 
words  "one,  two,"  and  then  "fire  !"  and  that  after  the 
word  "fire !"  the  combatants  should  fire  at  pleasure. 

As  is  often  the  case,  in  the  moment  of  danger 
Gardner's  coolness  came  back  to  him.  He  believed 
that  Marian  had  permitted  herself  to  be  inveigled 
into  an  engagement  to  Mason  because  of  the  quarrel 
and  his  behavior  toward  her.  He  felt  confident  that 
she  loved  him,  and  he  intended  to  solve  the  dilemma 
in  which  she  had  placed  herself  by  killing  the  other 
man.  No  feeling  of  pity,  no  intention  to  spare  his 
rival,  found  even  a  momentary  lodgment  in  his  heart 
As  he  stood  thinking  hard  while  the  arrangements 
were  being  completed,  he  marked  the  very  spot 

287 


"  WHEN  LOVELY  WOMAN  STOOPS  TO  FOLLY" 

where  the  lace  of  Mason's  coat  crossed  his  heart,  into 
which  he  intended  to  send  his  bullet  The  soldier 
wore  his  usual  uniform,  and  the  frock  coat  loosely 
buttoned  about  his  spare  form  gave  him  a  stouter  ap- 
pearance than  his  proportions  warranted. 

It  was  Gardner's  purpose  to  fire  instantly  upon  the 
giving  of  the  word,  trusting  to  his  quickness  of  move- 
ment and  his  accuracy  of  aim  to  kill  his  opponent 
before  he  had  time  to  pull  the  trigger.  As  he  looked 
at  Mason  standing  so  cool  and  so  quiet  before  him,  he 
felt  that  he  would  have  need  of  all  his  skill  and 
address  to  win  the  game,  in  which  not  only  love,  but 
life,  were  the  stakes. 

On  Mason's  part,  while  his  desire  to  kill  his  op- 
ponent was  as  great  as  Gardner's,  his  tactics  were 
different  Though  ordinarily  familiar  with  his  weapon 
and  able  to  give  a  good  account  of  himself  if  he  had 
his  own  time  for  firing,  he  knew  that  he  would  be  at 
a  tremendous  disadvantage  in  a  quick  exchange  of 
shots.  He  realized  also  that  with  his  usual  impetu- 
osity Gardner  would  fire  instantly  the  word  was  given. 
He  determined,  therefore,  to  submit  to  the  fearful  risk 
of  receiving  the  hasty  shot  which  he  felt  would  come, 
and  if  he  were  then  unharmed,  deliberately  take  his 
time  in  returning  it.  He  had  no  suspicion  but  that 
the  acceptance  of  his  suit  had  been  genuine,  and  he 
longed  to  live  with  a  double  intensity  on  account  of 
the  depth  of  his  passion. 

All  preparations  having  been  made,  the  colonel 
took  his  place.  The  seconds  removed  a  little  dis- 
tance away  from  their  principals  to  be  out  of  range. 

288 


"  WHEN  LOVELY  WOMAN  STOOPS  TO  FOLLY" 

"Are  you  ready,  gentlemen?"  said  the  colonel. 

"Ready,  sir!"  answered  both  men,  promptly. 

They  both  stood  slightly  turned,  their  right  sides 
presented,  their  arms  depending,  with  the  cocked 
pistol  in  the  right  hand. 

"You  know  the  conditions.  I  shall  count  'one, 
two,'  and  then  give  the  word  'fire!'"  continued  the 
colonel.  "  After  the  order  is  given  you  may  discharge 
your  weapons  at  will." 

The  colonel  had  a  third  pistol  in  hand,  for  what 
purpose  no  one  quite  understood.  The  silence  was 
aosolutely  breathless. 

"  One  !"  said  the  old  soldier,  his  voice  ringing 
hollow  through  the  apartment. 

"Two  !"  he  said,  more  strongly. 

"Fire  !"  he  snapped  out  at  last. 

Instantly  there  was  a  flash  of  light,  a  cloud  of 
smoke,  a  crashing  report  from  Gardner's  pistol. 
Mason's  second,  closely  watching  his  principal, 
thought  he  saw  a  flick  of  dust  rise  from  his  coat. 
The  Virginian  staggered  slightly,  raised  his  left  arm 
and  laid  it  across  his  breast,  but  still  stood  erect,  his 
pistol  in  his  half-extended  hand. 

"Great  God!"  cried  Gardner,  hoarsely,  as  he  saw 
his  rival  standing  before  him  apparently  unharmed. 
"Have  I  missed  him?" 

He  put  his  hand  in  bewilderment  to  his  head  and 
staggered  back  from  his  position. 

"Back  to  the  card,  sir!"  thundered  the  colonel, 
cocking  and  raising  his  pistol  and  pointing  it  directly 
at  Gardner. 

19  289 


"WHEN  LOVELY  WOMAN  STOOPS  TO  FOLLY" 

"Of  course,  sir,"  returned  the  sailor,  dauntlessly, 
stepping  back  to  the  card  as  he  spoke.  "I  trust  no 
gentleman  here  will  think  I  shrank  from  the  return 
bullet.  'Twas  but  surprise.  Take  your  shot,  I  beg 
of  you,  Captain  Mason." 

His  face  was  deadly  pale,  yet  he  forced  a  smile  to 
his  lips. 

"You  still  have  a  shot,  Captain  Mason.  Take  it. 
We  acquit  Lieutenant  Gardner  of  any  timidity  what- 
ever," said  the  colonel,  lowering  his  weapon. 

Mason,  who  had  grown  as  white  as  his  rival,  delib- 
erately raised  his  pistol  and  took  long  and  careful 
aim.  The  men  in  the  room  gazed  breathlessly.  They 
shifted  about  uneasily.  Gardner  stood  with  the  smile 
petrified  upon  his  face.  Mason  at  last  pressed  the 
trigger,  but  the  pistol  missed  fire  and  there  was  no 
discharge.  The  soldier  lowered  his  arm  and  recocked 
his  weapon. 

"By  heavens,  it  looks  like  murder!"  burst  forth 
one  of  the  men. 

"Silence,  gentlemen !"  shouted  the  colonel,  handling 
his  pistol  again  ;  "  the  man  is  entitled  to  his  shot,  and 
he  shall  have  it.  I'll  kill  the  first  man  that  interferes  !" 

"  I  beg  him  to  take  it,"  cried  Gardner,  with  splendid 
courage,  for  if  ever  man  could  read  his  death-warrant 
in  another's  face,  he  saw  it  in  the  countenance  of  his 
antagonist. 

Once  more  Mason  raised  his  pistol.  This  time 
nothing  prevented  the  discharge.  His  deliberate  aim 
had  been  successful,  and  Gardner  fell  dead  instantly, 
the  bullet  in  his  heart. 

290 


"  WHEN  LOVELY  WOMAN  STOOPS  TO  FOLLY" 

Mason,  with  the  smoking  pistol  clenched  in  his 
hand,  and  with  his  left  arm  still  pressed  against  his 
heart,  walked  over  to  the  table  and  stood  by  it,  lean- 
ing heavily  upon  it  as  he  stared  at  the  little  group 
bending  over  his  dead  rival.  At  that  moment  the 
door  was  flung  open  and  Marian,  dressed  as  she  had 
been  at  the  dance,  but  with  tear-stained  face,  fright- 
ened looks,  and  dishevelled  hair,  burst  into  the  room. 
She  happened  to  face  Mason,  and,  her  back  being 
turned  to  the  other  end  of  the  room,  she  did  not  see 
the  body  of  Gardner. 

"I  heard  shots,"  she  cried  ;  "have  they — where  is 
he?" 

"Colonel  and  gentlemen,"  said  Mason,  faintly, 
coming  forward  with  that  left  hand  still  pressed  against 
his  breast,  "'tis  an  unseemly  moment  to  announce  it, 
but  Miss  Fletcher  has  honored  me  with  a  promise  of 
herself  to  me  to-night.  We  are " 

The  girl  turned  to  him  with  a  look  of  abject  hor- 
ror and  repulsion.  She  screamed  faintly.  The  man 
was  half  blind  apparently  ;  he  did  not  seem  to  realize. 

"  Have  no  fear  for  me,  Marian  dear,"  he  went  on, 
softly,  <CI  am " 

"  What  have  you  done  ?"  she  shrieked.  "  Where  is 
Robert  Gardner  ?  'Tis  he  I  love,  not  you  !" 

Her  eyes  instinctively  followed  the  glances  of  those 
about  her. 

"  Oh  !"  she  cried.  "  What  is  that  ?  Robert !  Oh, 
my  God,  and  I  have  killed  you  !" 

Her  voice  rang  through  the  room  in  such  an  awful 
note  of  agony  that  every  man's  heart  stood  still.  The 

291 


"  WHEN  LOVELY  WOMAN  STOOPS  TO  FOLLY" 

colonel  moved  toward  her,  but  her  living  lover  was 
quicker.  He  caught  her  arm. 

"Don't  touch  me  !"  she  cried,  shrinking  away  from 
him.  "There  is  blood  on  your  hand  !  His  blood! 
You  are  a  murderer  !" 

Her  bitter  words  recalled  him  in  a  measure  to  him- 
self. 

"No,  madam,"  he  answered,  smiling  faintly,  "'Tis 
my  own." 

He  tore  open  his  coat,  showing  the  bosom  of  his 
shirt  and  waistcoat  stained  with  blood.  He  had  been 
hit,  but  the  loose  coat  had  deceived  his  opponent's 
aim,  and  the  bullet  had  missed  the  heart  He  had  so 
controlled  himself  that  no  one  suspected  that  he  was 
wounded,  and  he  had  almost  bled  to  death  in  the 
effort 

The  woman,  the  roses  all  shuddered  out  of  her 
cheeks,  a  ghastly  picture,  stared  from  the  dead  to  the 
living  with  dazed,  terrified  glances. 

"You,"  continued  Mason,  swaying  as  he  spoke, — 
"you  have  trifled  with  two  honest  men,  and  from  your 
cursed  coquetry  one  lies  dead  yonder  and  one — and 
one — dies — at  your  feet !" 

He  suddenly  collapsed  before  her,  caught  feebly  at 
her  white  satin  skirt  with  his  bloody  hands  as  he  lay 
upon  the  floor  and  strove  to  carry  it  to  his  lips. 

"He  loved  you,"  he  murmured,  "and  I,  too — we 
were  fools — for  a  woman." 

That  was  all. 


292 


SAVED  BY   HER   SLIPPER 


A    ROMANCE    OF   THE    BORDER 

"  When  greater  perils  men  environ, 
Then  women  show  a  front  of  iron  ; 
And,  gentle  in  their  manner,  they 
Do  bold  things  in  a  quiet  way." 

THOMAS  DUNN  ENGLISH 

I.—  IN    FORT    PATRICK    HENRY 


^l  HE  Indians  were  out  again  ! 

The  sharp  rattling  of  a  drum  franti- 
cally beaten  rolled  through  the  little 
hamlet.     The  silent,  pine-clad  hills  ris- 
ing above  the  clearing  on  the  bank 
sent  the  echoes  clattering  back  over  the  river. 

Scarcely  had  the  peacefulness  of  the  evening  been 
broken  by  the  first  note  of  the  clamor  when  from 
every  door  of  hut  or  cabin  the  excited  people  poured 
out  into  the  clearing  and  ran  toward  the  stockade. 

First  came  half-grown  boys  and  girls,  yelling  half 
in  terror,  half  in  sport  ;  then  frightened  mothers  clasp- 
ing crying  babies  to  their  troubled  breasts  with  one 
hand,  and  with  the  other  dragging  stumbling  little 
children.  Then  the  men  of  the  settlement,  coatless, 
hatless,  clad  as  they  were  in  the  various  occupations 
in  which  they  had  been  engaged  at  the  moment, 
brought  up  the  rear. 

293 


SAVED  BY  HER  SLIPPER 

Some  of  the  men  endeavored  to  drive  a  few  be- 
wildered cattle  ;  others  helped  to  bring  the  younger 
children  ;  but,  whatever  his  action,  each  one  carried 
a  long,  deadly  rifle,  as  with  grim,  set  faces  they  hur- 
ried toward  the  open  gate  of  the  fort  on  the  shore. 
A  panting  horse  stood  by  the  gate,  his  drooping  head 
giving  evidence  of  the  exhaustion  following  a  des- 
perate ride. 

Inside  the  fort  a  young  man,  dressed  in  the  usual 
fringed  hunting-shirt  and  leggings,  eternal  garment 
of  the  Western  pioneer,  leaned  upon  his  tall  rifle  and 
with  eager  gestures  poured  out  the  details  of  that 
message  which  had  started  the  rolling  of  the  drum. 

The  Indians  were  out, — the  fierce  Wyandotte,  the 
bloody  Mingo,  the  ruthless  Shawnee.  A  huge  war- 
party  accompanying  a  band  of  British  rangers  from 
Detroit  had  been  discovered  in  the  woods  early  that 
September  morning  in  1 777.  They  were  marching 
toward  Fort  Patrick  Henry  on  the  banks  of  the  Ohio, 
a  rude  white-oak  stockade  some  sixteen  feet  high, 
extending  along  the  river  where  now  the  mighty  fur- 
naces of  Wheeling  toss  smoke  and  flame  high  into 
the  air. 

The  Indians  were  yet  some  distance  away  ;  but  the 
messenger,  young  Hugh  McCullough,  the  bravest, 
most  daring,  most  gallant  young  man  among  the 
thirty  families  clustered  about  the  fort,  and  the  one 
surest  to  hit  his  mark  with  the  rifle,  could  not  tell 
how  soon  they  might  be  there.  But  they  might 
appear  at  any  moment ;  and  Colonel  Sheppard,  the 
commander,  deemed  it  best  to  bring  all  of  the  settle- 

294 


SAVED  BY  HER  SLIPPER 

ment  people  into  the  fort  at  once.  Hence  the  sudden 
alarm  and  call  to  arms. 

Presently  the  little  enclosure  was  filled  with  cry- 
ing children,  boastful  boys,  frightened  girls,  serious 
women,  and  thoughtful  men.  The  gates  were  shut ; 
the  younger  children,  under  the  care  of  the  older 
women,  sent  to  the  safest  room  in  the  four  corner 
block-houses,  while  the  matrons  set  about  preparing 
food,  moulding  bullets,  making  cartridges,  and  lend- 
ing to  the  contemplated  defence  such  other  assistance 
as  they  could.  The  men  and  youths  fell  in  with  their 
respective  companies  and  repaired  immediately  to 
their  several  stations,  long  practice  and  frequent 
alarms  having  made  them  familiar  with  the  duties  ex- 
pected of  them. 

A  long  time  they  watched  that  evening,  but  no 
plumed,  painted,  savage  figure  could  be  seen  through 
the  trees,  no  sound  broke  the  wonted  stillness  of  the 
hills.  Some  of  the  little  band  of  frontiersmen  looked 
askance  at  young  McCullough.  Had  he  given  a  false 
alarm  ?  himself  deceived,  taken  them  from  their  needed 
labors  only  to  array  them  against  some  imaginary 
peril  ? 

But  no  ;  he  was  the  keenest  scout  and  best  woods- 
man in  the  settlement.  A  long  row  of  sinister 
notches  on  the  stock  of  his  rifle  marked  the  red 
marauders  he  had  sent  to  their  last  account.  It 
could  not  be  ;  yet,  if  the  Indians  were  coming,  why 
did  they  not  present  themselves  ? 

Old  Colonel  Sheppard  and  Major  Ebenezer  Zane, 
his  second,  did  not  hesitate ;  they  trusted  the  young 

295 


SAVED  BY  HER  SLIPPER 

man.  Requests  to  return  to  their  homes  were  refused, 
the  gates  were  kept  closed,  and  by  and  by  the  women 
and  children  who  could  do  so  disposed  themselves 
for  the  troubled  sleep  of  an  anxious  night  There 
were  keen  watchers  on  the  walls,  but  nothing  broke 
the  usual  stillness. 

The  morning  was  dull  and  gray.  Clouds  of  .mist 
and  fog  dropped  silently  from  the  crest  of  the  hills, 
sending  down  long,  ghostlike  arms  writhing  through 
the  treetops  over  the  town ;  still  no  sign  of  the 
enemy. 

Smarting  under  the  curious  glances  and  sneers  of 
some  of  the  men,  McCullough  at  last  volunteered  to 
go  out  and  reconnoitre.  Colonel  Sheppard  accepted 
his  offer.  While  some  one  saddled  his  magnificent 
black  horse,  he  broke  from  the  group  surrounding 
him  and  walked  across  the  parade  toward  the  farthest 
block-house,  a  room  in  which  had  been  allotted  to  the 
family  of  Major  Zane. 

A  tall,  striking-looking  young  woman  stood  in  the 
door-way.  Most  of  the  women  in  the  fort  wore  linsey- 
woolsey  frocks  of  the  plainest  cut,  and,  while  some 
had  Indian  moccasins  on  their  feet,  the  majority  were 
barefoot.  This  girl  was  dressed  in  the  fashion  of, 
say,  some  six  months  before.  There  was  a  touch  of 
brightness  and  color  in  her  smart  frock,  albeit  a  few 
months  of  frontier  wear  had  sadly  dimmed  its  gayety. 
Shining  silver  buckles  overspread  her  small,  daintily 
shod,  arched  instep.  Her  short  sleeves,  extending 
only  to  the  elbow,  left  bare  her  young  brown  arms, 
which  had  been  white  when  she  came  to  the  settle- 

296 


SAVED  BY  HER  SLIPPER 

ment.  The  kerchief,  crossed  over  her  breast,  but 
open  at  the  neck,  afforded  a  ravishing  glimpse  of  her 
beautiful  throat.  Under  her  fair  hair  blue  eyes 
sparkled,  lighting,  in  spite  of  herself,  with  feeling  as 
she  comprehended  the  manly  figure  of  young  Mc- 
Cullough. 

He  was  fluent  enough  in  speech  ordinarily ;  but 
now  he  blushed,  hesitated,  and  stumbled  awkwardly, 
as  he  dragged  off  his  coonskin  cap  and  bowed  low 
before  her. 

"  Good-morning,  Mistress  Elizabeth,"  he  at  length 
managed  to  stammer  out ;  "  how  passed  you  the 
night?" 

"As  well,  sir,  as  one  could  on  a  hard  floor  'twixt 
crying  children,  frightened  mothers,  and  quarrelling 
lads." 

"'Tis  not  like  Philadelphia,  mistress?" 

"No,  indeed.  To  think  that  six  months  gone  I 
was  there,  a  girl  in  school,  and  now " 

"  Now  you  are  a  teacher  yourself,  Mistress  Zane, 
and  we  be  all  learning  from  you." 

"Learning  what,  pray?" 

"The  game  of  hearts." 

"Faith,  Master  McCullough,  if  rumor  belie  you 
not,  I  think  you  must  have  been  a  past  master  at  that 
game  before  I  came  upon  the  scene." 

"Nay,  not  so.  Dame  Rumor  does  me  wrong, 
but " 

"Well,  let  it  pass,  Master  McCullough.  You 
brought  the  alarm,  I  believe.  Was  it  real?  Are 
there  any  Indians  about?" 

297 


SAVED  BY  HER  SLIPPER 

"We  have  not  seen  any  as  yet  in  the  valley, 
but " 

"And  was  it  you,  sir,  who  tramped  all  night  on 
the  block-house  over  our  heads?" 

"  I  did,  indeed,  watch  over — you,  but " 

"  Could  you  not  have  done  it  more  softly,  sir,  and 
not  add  to  the  confusion  the  clatter  of  your  feet  and 
the  thud  of  your  gunstock?  I  knew  it  was  you." 

"Knew  you  my  step,  Mistress  Elizabeth?"  he 
queried  eagerly,  flushing  with  hope. 

"  Nay,  sir,"  she  answered,  coolly  ;  "  none  other  had 
been  so  foolish  ;  but  the  Indians?" 

"  I  go  to  seek  them  now  and  would  fain  say  good- 
by." 

"What!"  cried  the  girl,  breathlessly,  dropping  her 
mood  of  airy  banter,  her  face  gone  white  in  a  mo- 
ment "What!  you  leave  the  stockade ?" 

"Ay,  Mistress  Elizabeth,  and  I  am  come  to  beg 
you — to  wish  you — to  bid  me  good-speed." 

"Where  are  you  going  and  why?" 

"  Up  the  valley  to  beat  up  the  red  devils  ;  to  find 
them  if  they  be  not  gone." 

"Why,  sir,  you  will  be  in  danger!"  cried  the  girl, 
piteously,  stepping  from  the  door-way  and  coming 
nearer  to  him. 

"  I  am  in  more  danger  from  your  bright  eyes  than 
from  any  Indian  that  walks." 

"A  truce  to  this  trifling,  sir  !" 

"  Nay,  'tis  no  trifling.  My  heart's  gone  to  you. 
You  have  known  it  long  since.  Is  it  not  so  ?" 

She  stopped  with  downcast  head  before  him. 
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SAVED  BY  HER  SLIPPER 

"  They — they  did  not  teach  us  things — like  that — 
in  Philadelphia." 

"  Nay,  'twas  Mother  Eve  taught  you,  I'm  thinking  ; 
and,  as  I  maybe — "  he  hesitated,  and  then  continued 
softly,  "a  long  time  in  coming  back,  I  thought  I  must 
tell  you  now  or  you  might  never  hear  it.  I  love 
you."  He  turned  away.  "That's  all." 

She  sprang  toward  him  and  grasped  him  by  the 
arm. 

"Go  not,"  she  whispered,  her  eyes  brimming. 
"Stay."  Her  head  sank  forward;  she  trembled  as 
if  she  would  fall.  Unmindful  of  all  others,  he  slipped 
his  arm  around  her  waist.  "Stay,"  she  continued  so 
softly  that  he  could  scarce  hear  her  words,  though  he 
bent  his  head  eagerly  to  catch  them.  "Stay — for 
me." 

"Then  you  love,  too,  thank  God!"  he  cried. 
"  Nay,  I  must  go  ;  but  I  go  for  you." 

II.— THE    MAN'S    DARING 

His  horse  was  ready  at  the  gate  now.  The  place 
was  filled  with  men  ;  yet,  reckless  of  all  who  might 
note,  he  bent  his  head  low  and  kissed  her  unresisting. 
Then  he  tore  himself  away  and  sprang  to  the  saddle. 
With  a  wave  of  his  hand  toward  the  assemblage,  a 
long  glance  at  the  girl  who  stood  with  clasped  hands 
and  white,  upturned  face  staring  after  him,  he  struck 
spur  to  his  horse  and  dashed  out  through  the  gate. 
They  followed  him  with  their  gaze  for  a  short  dis- 
tance up  the  road  until  he  was  lost  in  the  trees  which 
covered  its  winding  course. 

299 


SAVED  BY  HER  SLIPPER 

And  so  the  morning  wore  on.  About  noon  the 
watchers  saw  three  or  four  Indians  in  the  trees.  The 
little  band  halted  out  of  rifle  range  on  the  edge  of 
the  clearing,  and  scanned  the  deserted  settlement  and 
the  fort  with  its  starry  banner  drooping  idly  from  its 
staff  The  mist  was  heavier  now ;  it  was  almost  a 
fog. 

Two  men  were  ordered  to  go  out  the  postern  gate 
under  cover  of  the  river  bank,  creep  along  the  shore 
until  they  gained  the  trees,  and  then  endeavor  to  dis- 
cover whether  or  not  there  were  more  Indians  there. 
A  little  party  of  twelve,  under  Captain  Mason,  was 
assembled  near  the  gate,  ready  to  dash  out  and  attack 
the  Indians  in  sight  if  it  were  deemed  advisable.  It 
often  happened  that  such  a  swift,  sharp  blow  diverted 
a  more  serious  attack. 

Nothing  had  as  yet  been  heard  of  McCullough. 
Elizabeth  Zane  had  passed  a  morning  of  agonized 
apprehension.  She  was  a  motherless  girl,  who  lived 
with  her  brother,  the  major ;  but  she  had  spent  most 
of  her  life  in  quiet  Quaker  Philadelphia  at  school. 
Only  recently  had  she  come  to  the  frontier ;  this  was 
her  first  experience  in  war — or  love. 

Suddenly  the  silence  was  broken  by  the  sharp 
crack  of  a  rifle.  One  of  the  Indians  was  seen  to  fall. 
The  scouts  had  evidently  attacked  them.  The  fire 
was  returned  by  the  group  of  savages.  There  was  a 
sharp  fusillade  in  the  woodland.  Captain  Mason  and 
his  comrades  tore  out  of  the  fort  and  ran  toward  the 
sound  of  the  firing.  A  wave  of  mist  rolled  down  and 
shut  them  in. 

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SAVED  BY  HER  SLIPPER 

The  eager  watchers  on  the  walls  could  hear  the 
rattle  of  the  rifles  and  see  the  dark  shadows  cast  by 
the  forest  shot  with  flashes  of  fire.  The  engagement 
seemed  to  be  getting  heavier.  What  was  happening  ? 
They  were  not  able  to  tell.  The  fog  completely  hid 
from  their  view  the  ravine  in  which  the  firing  was 
going  on. 

Presently  a  man  broke  out  of  the  mist  and  ran 
toward  the  fort.  He  was  hatless  ;  his  gun  was  gone. 
He  was  bleeding  from  several  wounds.  His  face  was 
ghastly  pale. 

"Help!"  he  cried,  brokenly.  "The  Indians  are 
on  us,  hundreds  of  'em  !" 

As  he  spoke  he  pitched  forward  and  fell  dead  on 
his  face  just  outside  the  gate.  The  fort  was  filled 
with  excitement.  The  wife  of  the  man  who  had  just 
fallen  shrieked  with  anguish,  while  the  other  women 
strove  to  comfort  her  and  to  hush  the  whimpering  of 
the  children. 

Colonel  Sheppard  turned  to  another  officer. 

"Captain  Ogle,"  he  said,  quickly,  "take  your 
company  of  twelve  men,  deploy  them  to  the  edge  of 
the  woods,  and  try  to  cover  the  retreat  or  bring  off 
Mason  and  his  men.  Be  careful,  and  do  not  be  am- 
bushed. We  are  but  eleven  men  left  here  after  you 
go  to  defend  this  post  and  one  hundred  women  and 
children." 

Again  the  gates  were  opened  and  a  little  band  of 
determined  hunters  stole  noiselessly  toward  the  clear- 
ing. The  rifle  shots  had  ceased  by  this  time,  but  they 
had  been  superseded  by  fierce  Indian  yells  and  a 

301 


SAVED  BY  HER  SLIPPER 

chorus  of  shrieks  and  cries  from  struggling  men. 
Ogle's  company  stole  rapidly  forward,  but  before 
they  could  reach  the  place  of  conflict  they  were  met 
by  a  fire  which  seemed  to  come  from  every  direction. 
Out  of  the  fog  and  smoke  appeared  the  Indians, 
tomahawk  in  hand. 

There  was  a  fierce,  wild  melee  for  a  moment,  and 
then  silence.  A  sudden  breeze  blew  down  the  valley, 
lifting  the  fog ;  and  the  dismayed  garrison  saw  the 
ground  strewn  with  the  bodies  of  their  friends  and 
neighbors,  while  just  out  of  range  the  Indians  danced, 
yelling  frantically,  jumping  high  into  the  air,  and 
flourishing  gory  scalps,  which  they  had  wrenched 
from  the  heads  of  the  fallen  while  some  of  them  were 
yet  alive.  Four  or  five  desperately  wounded  men 
gained  the  fort  under  a  rattling  rifle  fire. 

As  the  day  cleared  the  Indians  sought  cover  in  the 
deserted  houses  on  the  edge  of  the  woods  and  opened 
fire  on  the  stockade.  A  perfect  storm  of  bullets  was 
hurled  upon  the  fort ;  but  the  defenders,  well  pro- 
tected, suffered  no  loss,  and,  firing  slowly  and  de- 
liberately in  return,  strove  to  make  every  shot  tell 
and  with  good  effect  The  Indians  could  not  expose 
themselves  for  a  moment  without  being  hit. 

Presently  down  the  mountain  came  a  party  of 
rangers  under  the  British  flag,  militia  from  Canada. 
With  drums  beating  and  fifes  squealing  they  marched 
up  the  road,  dragging  a  small  cannon,  with  which  they 
opened  an  ineffectual  fire  upon  the  fort  After  a 
while,  however,  wearying  of  this  fruitless  duel,  the 
assailants  withdrew  out  of  range  and  the  roar  of  the 

302 


SAVED  BY  HER  SLIPPER 

battle  died  away,  although  the  investment  of  the  place 
was  still  vigorously  maintained. 

About  four  o'clock  a  burst  of  yells  and  shouts 
attracted  the  attention  of  the  garrison  to  the  top  of 
the  hill  overlooking  the  fort.  A  single  horseman 
suddenly  appeared  on  the  brink  above  the  clearing, 
his  tall  figure  plainly  silhouetted  against  the  sky-line. 
The  hill  where  he  overlooked  it  was  some  three  hun- 
dred feet  high  and  almost  perpendicular,  although  the 
rough  slope  was  broken  here  and  there  by  drifts  and 
ledges.  He  reined  in  his  horse  abruptly  on  the  very 
brink  and  gazed  backward. 

Elizabeth  Zane  stood  by  her  brother  on  the  roof 
of  one  of  the  block-houses.  With  eyes  lighted  by 
affection,  she  knew  McCullough  instantly.  Presently 
others  recognized  him  also.  They  could  hear  the  yell- 
ing drawing  nearer.  They  saw  McCullough  look  to  the 
right  and  the  left  and  shake  his  head  ;  they  saw  him 
turn  and  discharge  his  rifle  at  his  unseen  pursuers. 

They  realized  the  situation  at  once.  There  was  a 
lost  man  on  the  brink  of  that  hill,  his  gun  discharged, 
weaponless,  surrounded  by  Indians,  who  were  closing 
in  upon  him  to  take  him  alive  and  torture  him.  Death 
at  the  stake  !  There  was  no  salvation  for  him  ! 

What  could  he  do  ?  Would  he  dismount  and  face 
them  ?  Would  he  try  to  ride  over  them  ?  A  mo- 
ment would  tell.  Elizabeth  closed  her  eyes,  and  her  an- 
guished lips  strove  in  vain  to  form  the  words  of  a  prayer. 

"  He  is  going  to  try  the  hill !"  cried  Major  Zane, 
suddenly. 

The  bold  hunter  shortened  the  bridle,  backed  his 
303 


SAVED  BY  HER  SLIPPER 

horse  away  from  the  hill  a  few  feet,  and  then  launched 
him  into  the  air.  The  cry  of  defiance  that  he  gave 
as  he  dropped  down  the  steep  slope  could  have  been 
heard  for  miles  around.  Scarcely  had  he  vanished 
from  the  crest  of  the  hill  when  the  faces  of  the  In- 
dians appeared  over  it  The  edge  of  the  bluff  was 
instantly  ringed  with  fire. 

"He  falls  !"  cried  one  from  the  fort. 

"He  is  down  !"  screamed  another. 

"No,  he  makes  it!" 

"They've  hit  him!" 

"  He's  reached  the  ground  safe  !" 

"  They've  got  him  !" 

"No,  he's  up  again  !" 

"He's  coming  here  !" 

"To  the  gate  !  to  the  gate  !" 

The  bold  hunter  had  actually  leaped,  scrambled, 
fallen  down  that  mighty  precipice  ;  and  horse  and 
man  apparently  were  both  unharmed  at  the  bottom. 
It  was  a  feat  of  daring  horsemanship  which  has  been 
the  pride  of  the  vicinity  ever  since. 

Between  him  and  the  fort,  however,  lay  the  Indians. 
Startled  and  surprised  by  the  hardihood  and  success  of 
the  descent,  they  stood  dazed  for  a  moment.  Grasping 
his  rifle  by  the  barrel,  with  the  butt  up,  McCullough 
swept  down  upon  them.  The  first  man  who  laid  hand 
upon  the  bridle  he  brained  with  the  rifle-butt  Drop- 
ping the  rein,  he  cut  at  the  next  with  his  hunting-knife. 
The  excited  horse  struck  out  savagely  and  beat  out  the 
brains  of  a  third.  The  rest  gave  back  for  a  moment 
He  was  through  ! 


SAVED  BY  HER  SLIPPER 

In  another  second,  bending  low  over  the  saddle,  he 
was  galloping  madly  toward  the  fort.  Again  the  rifles 
cracked  around  him.  They  saw  him  falter  in  the 
saddle,  sway  uneasily.  At  the  same  time  his  horse 
gave  a  great  bound  forward.  They  had  both  been  hit, 
then. 

The  Indians  in  their  excitement  ran  after  him,  for- 
getting they  were  within  range  until  the  riflemen  on 
the  walls  sent  bullet  after  bullet  straight  to  the  mark. 
The  brave  horse  staggered  and  fell  outside  the  gate, 
pitching  the  man  heavily  on  his  head. 

Under  cover  of  the  rifle  fire,  two  men  ran  out  of  the 
open  gate,  and  one  woman,  Elizabeth  Zane,  followed 
after.  They  picked  up  McCullough  and  brought  him 
within  the  stockade  and  laid  him  on  the  ground. 
The  young  girl,  white-faced,  despairing,  dropped  by 
his  side  and  took  his  head  in  her  arms.  Her  kisses 
and  piteous  pleadings  seemed  to  revive  him,  and  a 
draught  of  spirits  restored  him. 

"  Safe,  safe,  Elizabeth  !"  he  murmured.  "  Keep  up 
a  good  heart,  all,"  he  added  as  soon  as  he  could 
speak  clearly.  "  Colonel  Sheppard,  I  found  the  In- 
dians out  there." 

"  I  see  you  did,  my  boy,"  said  the  colonel,  smiling 
grimly.  "What  then?" 

"  I  rode  off  to  Colonel  Swearingen  and  told  him  you 
were  beleaguered,  sir." 

"Yes,  and  what  did  he  say?" 

"He'll  raise  a  force  and  be  with  you  in  the  morn- 
ing. Where  are  the  rest  of  the  men  ?"  he  cried, 
looking  around  at  the  little  handful  of  people.  "  Why 

305 


SAVED  BY  HER  SLIPPER 

are  the  women  using  the  rifles?"  he  went  on,  noticing 
that  the  weakness  of  the  garrison  had  compelled  some 
of  the  women  to  take  the  places  of  the  dead  soldiers. 
"  I'm  needed  here,  I  see.  I  am  not  hurt,"  he  con- 
tinued ;  "let  me  up  !" 

"But  you  are  wounded!"  cried  Elizabeth.  "You 
cannot." 

"Nay,  'tis  nothing,"  he  exclaimed;  "a  flesh 
wound  in  the  arm  and  a  graze  along  the  chest.  When 
the  horse  fell  he  threw  me  so  heavily  that  it  stunned 
me.  When  my  arm  is  bound  up  I'll  be  all  right" 

"Water  here,"  called  the  colonel,  "and  some 
linen  !" 

"  We  have  none  in  the  fort,  sir,"  answered  Major 
Zane. 

"A  woman's  petticoat,  then." 

"Take  mine,"  cried  Elizabeth,  rising  and  lifting  her 
outside  skirt  and  tearing  a  strip  off  her  underskirt. 

"Nay,  not  your  city  finery,  Mistress  Elizabeth," 
protested  McCullough,  sitting  up  as  well. 

"Nothing  is  too  fine  for  a  brave  man,  sir,"  she 
answered,  smiling  proudly  down  at  him. 

"Not  even  Elizabeth  Zane?"  he  questioned,  cun- 
ningly. 

"Not  even  Elizabeth  Zane,"  she  replied,  bravely,  in 
spite  of  her  blushes. 

"Thank  God  !"  he  whispered,  as  she  bent  down 
and  bound  up  the  wound. 

"Zane,"  said  the  colonel,  laughing  at  the  oblivious 
pair,  "did  you  ever  know  a  peril  so  deadly  that  it 
could  prevent  two  young  people  from  making  love  ?" 

306 


SAVED  BY  HER  SLIPPER 

The  wound,  from  which  he  had  lost  much  blood, 
would  have  incapacitated  a  modern  man  from  further 
fighting ;  but  that  little  handful  could  not  afford  to 
lose  a  single  member  if  they  hoped  to  stand  off  the 
three  hundred  savages  around  the  fort,  so  McCullough 
took  his  place  on  the  walls  with  the  rest.  For  some 
little  time  the  interchange  of  fire  was  kept  up,  with 
further  loss  on  the  part  of  the  Indians,  but  none  at  all 
to  the  Americans  ;  but  it  was  evident  that  some  plan 
was  being  matured.  The  rangers  were  seen  manoeu- 
vring through  the  trees  ;  the  cannon  was  dragged  to 
a  point  where  it  could  do  greater  execution. 

Meanwhile  Colonel  Sheppard  and  Major  Zane,  with 
McCullough  to  second  their  efforts,  were  looking  care- 
fully to  their  defences.  Every  rifle,  musket,  and 
ancient  pistol  was  brought  out,  charged,  and  laid  at 
hand,  ready  for  use.  At  this  moment,  however,  a 
startling  discovery  was  made  :  the  powder  had  all  but 
given  out !  Without  powder  they  would  be  helpless 
to  resist  the  assault  which  would  apparently  be  de- 
livered in  a  short  time. 


III.— THE  WOMAN'S  HEROISM 

As  the  news  spread  among  the  men  and  the  women, 
a  panic  filled  their  hearts.  Was  that  crowded  en- 
closure, filled  with  women  and  children,  to  be  de- 
livered to  the  ruthless  passions  of  those  ferocious 
Indians  and  the  half-breed  rangers  ?  God  forbid  ! 
Yet  what  was  to  be  done  ? 

"Oh,  that  we  had  some  powder  !  I'd  give  my  life 
307 


SAVED  BY  HER  SLIPPER 

for  a  keg  of  it !"  exclaimed  Colonel  Sheppard,  in  de- 
spair. "Has  every  recess  been  searched?" 

"We  ransacked  the  fort,  sir;  there  is  none  here," 
was  the  reply. 

"I  know  where  there  is  some,"  suddenly  cried 
Major  Zane.  "  In  my  cabin  yonder  there  is  a  small 
keg  of  it ;  enough  for  us  all.  I  had  forgotten  it  until 
this  moment.  I'll  go  and  get  it." 

The  cabin  was  some  sixty  yards  from  the  gate,  and 
within  easy  rifle  range  of  the  busy  enemy. 

"'Tis  sure  death  to  venture  there,"  cried  the 
colonel ;  "  besides,  you  are  next  in  charge  here.  I 
cannot  let  you  go." 

"Let  me  go  !"  cried  McCullough. 

"  Nay,  you've  done  enough,  and  with  your  wounded 
arm  you  could  not  carry  it.  Besides,  we  need  you." 

"  Let  me  !" 

"I'll  go,"  cried  one  and  another,  as  the  old  colonel 
looked  about  him  in  an  agony  of  indecision. 

"We  need  you  all ;  I  can't  spare  a  man,"  he  mut- 
tered, hoarsely.  "  I  don't  see  how  we  can  hold  the 
walls  against  another  assault,  as  it  is,  with  but  a  dozen 
able  men  here.  Was  ever  man  in  such  a  position?" 

"I  will  go,  colonel,"  cried  a  clear  voice  from  the 
women  about  the  group  of  men. 

"Elizabeth  !"  exclaimed  her  brother. 

"  Mistress  Zane  !"  interrupted  McCullough  ;  "nay, 
you  shall  not.  'Tis  no  woman's  work  !  I " 

"Silence,  sir!"  interrupted  the  colonel.  "Who 
commands  this  garrison?  'Tis  not  woman's  work, 
indeed ;  but  we  can  spare  no  men.  I  cannot  risk  a 

308 


SAVED  BY  HER  SLIPPER 

single  rifle.  The  maid  shall  go,  and  God  bless  her ! 
If  she  falls,  why,  she  but  anticipates  the  fate  of  the 
rest  of  us." 

"  Elizabeth  !  Elizabeth  !"  cried  McCullough,  ap- 
pealingly,  still  unconvinced;  "you  can't  go!  Think 
what  your  life  is  to  me  !" 

"  No  more  than  yours  is  to  me,  Master  Hugh,"  she 
answered,  bravely,  "and  yet  you  went." 

"Elizabeth,  sister,"  cried  Zane,  "I  can't  let  you 
go  !  You  must  not  take  this  fearful  risk  !" 

"Nay,  gentlemen,"  interrupted  Elizabeth,  stoutly, 
"  I  will  go  !  Open  the  gate.  Do  you  cover  me  with 
your  rifles  as  best  you  can.  Good-by." 

"Stay!"  cried  McCullough,  grasping  her  by  the 
arm.  "Gentlemen,  I  love  her  and  she  loves  me. 
Would  you  send  away  my  promised  wife?  Must 
I  see  her  killed  before  my  eyes  ?  Oh,  let  me  try  ?" 

"Nay,  you  shall  not!"  said  the  girl,  kissing  him 
and  suddenly  thrusting  him  from  her,  crying,  "  For- 
give me  !" 

There  was  a  flash  of  skirts  through  the  open  gate, 
and  she  was  gone.  Forgetful  of  his  wounds,  Mc- 
Cullough sprang  to  the  top  of  the  block-house  nearest 
the  gate.  His  own  rifle  in  hand,  and  sweeping  one  or 
two  others  within  reach,  in  spite  of  the  pain  from 
his  injured  arm,  he  knelt  on  the  roof,  peering  eagerly 
down  the  hill. 

As  she  left  the  block-house  Elizabeth  ran  with  the 
speed  of  a  deer  straight  to  her  brother's  house.  She 
knew  exactly  where  the  powder  lay  concealed.  She 
felt  little  fear  in  the  advance.  Seeing  a  woman  run- 

309 


SAVED  BY  HER  SLIPPER 

ning  toward  them,  and  ignorant  of  her  purpose,  the 
Indians  probably  would  not  attempt  to  harm  her ;  but 
when  she  started  back  with  the  heavy  keg  of  powder 
in  her  arms  they  would  detect  the  reason  for  her 
movement  and  open  fire  upon  her  at  once.  Her 
comparatively  slow  progress  under  her  burden  would 
make  her  position  exceedingly  dangerous  then.  But 
that  was  a  chance  she  realized  she  would  have  to 
take. 

It  happened  just  as  she  had  anticipated.  She 
gained  the  house  without  molestation  and  disappeared 
within  the  door-way  for  a  moment,  though  it  seemed 
hours  to  the  men  and  women  who  watched  from  the 
fort  until  she  appeared  with  the  keg  of  powder  on 
her  shoulder.  One  glance  she  cast  back  toward  the 
Indians  standing  gazing  in  startled  surprise  ;  one  long 
look  she  threw  toward  the  fort  where,  although  she 
could  not  detect  him  in  her  excitement,  she  knew  her 
lover  was  on  guard,  and  then  she  started  up  the  hill. 

As  she  came  out  from  the  cover  of  the  house  the 
Indians  saw  the  keg  of  powder  upon  her  shoulder  and 
at  once  realized  what  she  was  attempting  to  do. 
With  roars  of  rage  they  opened  fire.  The  bullets 
whistled  and  sang  about  her  ears  ;  they  spattered  the 
earth  about  her  flying  feet ;  one  grazed  her  neck ; 
another  tipped  her  arm  ;  a  third  glanced  off  the  iron 
hoop  of  the  keg  she  carried.  If  one  struck  the  pow- 
der fairly,  she  would  probably  be  blown  to  atoms.  A 
new  peril ! 

Her  breath  came  quickly,  her  heart  rose  in  her 
throat  and  seemed  to  choke  her,  mists  swam  before 

310 


SAVED  BY  HER  SLIPPER 

her  eyes  as  she  ran  up  the  hill.  Blindly  she  strug- 
gled on.  She  swayed  to  and  fro  over  the  rough 
ploughed  ground,  and  the  watchers  thought  she 
would  have  fallen  or  dropped  her  burden,  but  some- 
thing superhuman  in  her  enabled  her  to  hold  tight 
and  press  on. 

She  could  not  tell  whether  she  ran  rapidly  or  not ; 
but  her  progress  seemed  slow,  fearfully  slow.  Pres- 
ently the  firing  stopped.  Three  of  the  Indians,  toma- 
hawk in  hand,  broke  from  the  trees  and  recklessly 
started  up  the  hill  after  her.  They  would  try  to 
capture  her.  Heedless  of  a  possible  rifle  fire  from  the 
fort  as  they  came  within  range,  they  leaped  on  her  trail. 

That  was  McCullough's  opportunity.  With  a 
prayer  in  his  heart  that  God  might  speed  the  bullet, 
he  took  careful  aim.  The  first  half-naked  painted 
demon  was  nearing  the  girl  with  every  bound.  Two 
more  steps  and  she  would  be  in  his  grasp.  She 
heard  his  feet  on  the  ground  ;  his  yell  rang  in  her  ear. 
In  spite  of  herself  she  started  aside  and  looked  around. 

McCullough  had  his  opening  at  last.  A  rifle  shot 
rang  out.  She  heard  the  scream  of  the  bullet  past 
her  head.  The  savage  threw  up  his  hands,  groaned 
horribly,  and  pitched  forward  with  a  bullet  in  his 
breast  Encouraged,  she  ran  a  few  steps  farther. 
Her  foot  caught  in  a  forked  piece  of  timber.  The 
other  pursuing  Indians  were  near  her  now.  The 
wood  was  filled  with  the  enemy  holding  their  fire  and 
watching  the  mad  chase. 

"  Let  no  one  else  fire,"  called  McCullough.  "You 
might  hit  her.  Leave  them  to  me." 

3" 


SAVED  BY  HER  SLIPPER 

These  two  savages,  warned  by  the  fate  of  the  first, 
were  wise  enough  to  keep  directly  behind  the  fleeing 
girl.  But,  as  her  foot  caught,  she  plunged  sideways 
to  extricate  herself,  leaving  the  shoe  with  its  glittering 
silver  buckle  in  the  obstruction.  That  one  second  was 
enough  for  McCullough  again.  Once  more  the  un- 
erring rifle  cracked  and  the  second  Indian  fell. 

Elizabeth,  recovering  her  wits,  ran  sideways  now. 
The  third  Indian,  attracted  by  the  shining  buckle, 
stooped  for  a  moment  to  pick  it  up.  McCullough 
fired  a  third  rifle,  which  some  one  put  into  his  hand. 
The  bullet  shattered  the  Indian's  arm.  With  a  cry  of 
pain  and  rage,  his  other  hand  dropped  down  toward 
the  lost  slipper,  and  this  time  a  bullet  from  a  fourth 
rifle  found  his  heart. 

The  woods  were  ringed  with  fire  now,  but  the  girl 
was  saved.  When  he  saw  that  she  had  arrived  at  the 
fort  gate,  McCullough  ran  from  the  block-house  and 
reached  the  entrance  in  time  to  catch  her  in  his  arms. 
Her  poor  little  Philadelphia  finery  was  red  with  blood 
from  the  wound  in  her  neck,  and  her  sweet  young  face 
was  covered  with  the  same  gory  embroidery. 

She  dropped  the  powder  at  the  feet  of  the  colonel 
and  fainted  in  McCullough's  arms,  his  own  face 
scarcely  less  white  than  hers.  One  agonizing  glance 
he  gave  to  assure  himself  that  her  wounds  were  but 
slight  ones,  and  he  had  to  leave  her  to  the  women,  for 
he  was  called  to  the  walls. 

While  some  of  the  women  revived  the  girl,  others, 
by  Colonel  Sheppard's  directions,  broke  open  the 
precious  keg  of  powder  and  served  it  to  the  men. 

312 


SAVED  BY  HER  SLIPPER 

Those  who  could  do  so,  took  their  places,  rifle  in 
hand,  on  the  stockade ;  for  the  Indians  and  rangers 
now  came  out  into  the  open.  Carrying  a  great  log, 
the  Indians  dashed  recklessly  at  the  fort,  endeavoring 
to  batter  in  the  gate,  while  they  kept  down  the  fire  of 
the  defenders  by  the  rapidity  of  their  own  discharge. 
They  reached  the  gate  and  hammered  on  it  with  their 
ram  ;  but  the  gallant  little  band  within  the  walls,  with 
their  women  helpers  behind  them,  poured  such  a  fire 
upon  them  that  after  heavy  loss  they  retreated  out  of 
range,  disheartened  by  their  failure. 

The  next  morning  brought  Colonel  Swearingen  and 
his  militia  levies,  and  at  his  approach  the  besiegers 
gave  over  the  attempt  and  withdrew.  The  post  was 
saved  with  the  women  and  children.  Elizabeth  and 
McCullough  were  the  heroes  of  the  occasion. 

"How  could  you  do  it?"  asked  Hugh  of  the  girl, 
as  they  wandered  together  by  the  river  that  evening. 

"  I  did  it  for  you,  dear,"  she  answered. 

"No,  not  only  for  me,  but  for  the  women  and 
children  ;  you  thought  of  them?" 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  but  I  thought  more  of  you  than  of  the 
others,  all  the  time.  I  knew  you'd  save  me,  Hugh. 
I  was  sure  you  would  not  let  them  take  me.  'Twas 
your  rifle " 

"  Nay,  dearest,  'twas  your  shoe."  He  took  it  fondly 
from  his  coat  and  kissed  it.  "This  little  shoe  that 
turned  you  aside  and  gave  me  an  opening.  God  forbid 
I  should  ever  have  to  do  such  shooting  again,  dearest." 

"Amen,  Hugh,  and  yet  He  guided  the  bullets,  I 
think." 

313 


SAVED  BY  HER  SLIPPER 

"  Yes,  truly.  And  I  never  dreamed  that  you  were 
such  a  heroine,  Elizabeth.  Where  did  you  learn  it  ? 
Not  in  Philadelphia,  I  am  sure." 

"  No,  Hugh,  there  is  but  one  school  in  which  they 
teach  those  things." 

"And  that  is  the  school  of " 

"Love,"  she  whispered,  hiding  her  head  in  his 
breast 


"  SONNY  BOY'S  "  DIARY 


AN   INCIDENT   OF   THE   WAR   IN    CHINA 

"  Oh,  a  strange  hand  writes  for  our  dear  son — O  stricken  mother's  soul  I 
All  swims  before  her  eyes — flashes  with  black — she  catches  the  main  words  only ; 
Sentences  broken — '  gun-shot  wound   in   the   breast,  cavalry  skirmish,  taken  to 

hospital; 
At  present  low,  but  will  soon  be  better." " 

WALT  WHITMAN 

Atf  G  the  most  devoted  of  my  parishioners 
was  a  certain  Mrs.  Allen, — devoted  to 
the  Church,  of  course,  that  is  ;  although, 
if  I  may  judge  from  her  actions,  I  think 
she  held  me  personally  in  high  esteem 
as  well.    When  I  became  acquainted  with  her  she  was 
a  widow  with  one  son.     Other  children,  girls,  had  been 
born  to  her  I  learned  afterward,  but  she  had  lost  them 
in  their  early  childhood  ;  and,  after  the  death  of  her 
husband,  who  had  been  a  major  in  the  marine  corps 
of  the  United  States  navy,  her  life  had  been  entirely 
devoted   to    this   son,    in   whom    her   heart   was   so 
wrapped  up  that  she  fairly  worshipped  him. 

She  was  a  gentle,  quiet,  retiring  little  woman,  sad- 
faced  and  inclined  to  melancholy  when  George,  her 
son,  was  not  with  her.  He  was  a  hearty,  healthy  lad, 
abounding  in  strength  and  spirits,  full  of  fun  and  mis- 
chief, but  never  vicious,  and  he  certainly  adored  her 
with  a  genuine  enthusiasm.  His  mother  seemed 


"  SONNY  BOY'S"  DIARY 

actually  to  bask  in  the  sunshine  of  his  presence,  and 
when  they  were  together  she  was  a  different  woman. 

When  I  first  knew  them  the  boy  had  just  been  given 
an  appointment  at  Annapolis ;  and  though  he  graduated 
at  the  head  of  his  class  and  should  naturally  have  gone 
into  the  line  of  the  navy,  he  had  followed  the  family 
tradition  by  electing  to  serve  in  the  marine  corps,  as 
his  father  and  grandfather  before  him  had  done.  He 
had  risen  to  the  grade  of  first  lieutenant,  and  was  one 
of  the  officers  of  the  little  band  of  United  States  marines 
who  formed  the  Legation  guard  in  Pekin  during  the 
terrible  summer  of  1900.  I  well  remember  the  fear- 
ful anxiety  and  yet  the  superhuman  resolution  with 
which  Mrs.  Allen  confronted  those  days  of  silence  and 
suspense. 

Sadly  enough,  among  the  first  messages  which  got 
through  from  the  besieged  ministers  was  one  announc- 
ing the  death  of  her  son.  I  was  with  her,  of  course, 
immediately  upon  the  receipt  of  the  news.  Her  grief 
was  as  silent  as  it  was  terrible.  She  made  no  com- 
plaint. The  blow  just  struck  her  down.  Her  heart 
was  affected  in  some  way,  and  Dr.  Taylor  informed 
me,  and  I,  in  turn,  told  her  that  her  days  were  num- 
bered. I  felt  that  it  was  best  that  she  should  know  it. 
Now  that  her  son  had  been  taken,  the  desire  to  live 
left  her,  and  she  was  almost  happy  in  the  thought  that 
a  short  time — a  month  or  two  at  most,  the  doctor 
said — would  unite  them  again. 

A  few  days  after  the  receipt  of  the  first  bad  news, 
freedom  of  communication  having  been  restored 
meanwhile,  the  report  of  George's  death  was  contra- 

316 


"  SONNY  BOY'S"  DIARY 

dieted.  Some  one  had  blundered  in  the  first  message, 
and  things  were  in  such  a  state  we  could  never  find  out 
who.  He  had  been  desperately  wounded,  they  said, 
but  would  recover. 

His  mother  brightened  under  this  encouraging 
news.  There  was  a  faint  rally  and  some  improvement 
in  her  condition,  but  nothing  of  a  permanent  charac- 
ter. She  realized  the  situation  fully,  but  she  sum- 
moned all  her  resolution  and  determination  to  her  as- 
sistance and  told  me  that  she  could  not  die  until  she 
had  seen  her  son  again.  Dr.  Taylor  thought  that 
probably  she  might  survive  under  the  inspiration  of 
her  devotion  until  the  boy,  about  whom  we  con- 
tinued to  receive  favorable  reports,  should  come  home 
again. 

So  she  lingered  through  the  summer,  struggling, 
anxious,  hopeful,  determined.  I  happened  to  be  with 
her  on  the  eventful  day  when  she  received  his  first 
letter.  The  joy  with  which  she  took  it  from  me  and 
tore  it  open  with  her  white,  feeble,  trembling  hands 
was  almost  painful  to  witness.  I  felt  as  if  I  were 
intruding  upon  a  meeting ;  but  her  blank  look  of 
astonishment  changing  to  regret,  and  then  to  bitter 
disappointment,  even  anguish,  as  she  mastered  its 
contents  was  surprising. 

"  I  have  lost  my  boy,"  she  said,  with  trembling  lips, 
after  a  while,  as  she  handed  me  the  letter. 

"What?"  I  cried. 

"  Oh,  no  ;  he  is  getting  better  and  is  coming  back. 
I  do  not  mean  that ;  but — but — he  is  going  to  be 
married.  Read  it  yourself." 


"  SONNY  BOY'S"  DIARY 

Why,  it  was  a  letter  to  make  any  woman's  heart 
proud,  I  thought,  and  I  said  so.  There  were  sober 
words  of  thanksgiving  to  God  that  his  life  had  been 
spared  ;  a  modest  expression  of  satisfaction  in  the  pro- 
motion to  a  captaincy,  which  had  come  to  him  for  his 
splendid  courage  during  the  siege,  notably  when  he  led 
the  attack  on  the  sand-bag  fort  on  the  wall,  where  he 
was  wounded  ;  and  lots  of  love  for  his  mother.  That 
was  not  all,  though.  He  had  been  a  demonstrative 
boy  always,  I  suppose  ;  he  had  lavished  affectionate 
endearments  upon  her,  and  she  had  been  first  in  his 
heart ;  but  now — ah,  there  was  the  rub. 

I  realized,  as  I  reflected  on  the  situation,  that  I  was 
only  a  man,  and  that  no  man  had  ever  fathomed  the 
subtle  depths  of  a  woman's — a  mother's — heart.  It  was 
as  she  had  said  ;  he  was  going  to  be  married.  I  must 
admit  that  nine-tenths  of  the  letter  was  filled  with 
descriptions  of  the  young  woman  to  whom  he  had 
plighted  his  troth.  He  sang  her  praises  with  the  blind- 
ness of  youth  and  the  ardor  of  manhood. 

They  had  met  for  the  first  time  during  the  siege. 
She  had  been  a  belated  traveller  who  had  been  caught 
in  the  Boxer  uprising,  and  had  been  forced  to  take 
shelter  in  the  Legation.  She  had  shown  herself  to  be 
a  heroine,  of  course.  Everybody  was  heroic  in  those 
days.  We  all  expected  they  would  be,  and  they  were. 
After  George  had  been  wounded  she  had  nursed  him 
back  to  life  and  won  her  way  into  his  heart  in  the 
process.  It  was  all  quite  natural,  certainly,  and  very 
romantic.  She  was  coming  back  with  him.  They 
were  to  be  married  by  one  of  the  missionaries  in  the 

318 


"  SONNY  BOY'S"  DIARY 

Legation,  where  the  romance  had  begun,  as  soon  as 
he  was  able  to  stand  it,  and  he  hoped  soon  to  present 
to  his  mother  a  new  daughter,  who  was  "the  best,  the 
sweetest,  the  noblest  little  woman  in  the  world,  and 
whom  I  love  and  adore  with  all  my  heart,"  and  so  on 
until  the  end  of  the  letter. 

I  thought  myself  that  he  might  have  spared  her  a 
little  of  that ;  and,  as  I  watched  Mrs.  Allen's  face  and 
tried  to  talk  to  comfort  her,  I  began  to  have  a  dim 
realization  of  what  a  shock  it  was.  That  boy  had 
been  everything  to  her,  as  I  said,  and  she  to  him. 
She  had  always  been  first  in  his  affection  and  he  in 
hers.  Alone  in  the  world,  the  two  had  grown  up  to- 
gether. Now  that  his  life  was  spared,  she  confronted 
the  fact  that  she  was  ctalled  upon  to  share  him  with 
another  woman. 

Oh,  the  bitterness  of  jealousy  in  old  age  !  It  was 
there.  Oh,  the  hopeless  feeling  that  comes  over  a 
mother  when  she  realizes  that,  in  a  certain  sense, 
she  is  supplanted  !  I  saw  it  in  the  white  face,  the 
pressed  lips,  the  trembling  hands  of  the  stricken  woman 
leaning  back  in  the  chair  before  me.  It  matters  not 
that  it  is  the  usual  course  of  life  ;  that  did  not  make  it 
easier  for  her.  Other  mothers  had  to  bear  such  things, 
we  both  knew,  but  now  it  seemed  different 

Well,  I  comforted  her  as  best  I  could,  said  all 
things  possible  before  I  left  her,  but  to  little  purpose, 
I  fear.  The  next  day  she  was  dead.  The  second 
shock  had  been  too  much  for  her.  I  was  with  her 
when  she  passed  away.  When  I  came  into  the  room 
I  noticed  that  the  table  by  her  bed  was  covered  with 

319 


"  SONNY  BOY'S"  DIARY 

a  pile  of  common   red-backed  blank  books,  which  I 
had  never  seen  before. 

"  Sonny  Boy  !" — that's  what  she  called  him  ;  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  he  was  a  great  big  fellow,  and  as  manly 
as  a  soldier  should  be,  he  was  always  in  her  heart  what 
he  had  been  as  a  child — "Sonny  Boy's  diary,"  she 
whispered  to  me  ;  "  I  want  you  to  take  them — keep 
them  until  he  comes  home  and  then  give  them  to  him. 
And  I  want  you  to  read  them,  too,  so  that  you  may 
know — and — and — sympathize. ' ' 

Sympathize  with  whom  ?  I  wondered.  With  George 
or  with  her  ?  Ah,  I  soon  found  out.  I  thought  she 
had  gone  after  the  prayers  had  been  said,  she  lay  on 
the  bed  so  still  and  quiet  But  she  opened  her  eyes 
presently  and  whispered  brokenly  in  the  silence, — 

"Tell  him — I  love  him  better  than — than — any  one 
in  the  whole  world — will — ever — love  him — Sonny 
—Boy." 

After  that  her  eyes  remained  open  until  I  closed 
them. 

I  took  the  books  home,  and  the  evening  of  the  day 
of  the  funeral  I  sat  down  to  read  them.  It  was  late 
at  night,  or  rather  early  in  the  morning,  when  I 
finished  them,  and  then  I  did  something  for  which  my 
conscience  has  troubled  me  ever  since. 

I  wish  that  I  could  tell  you  all  that  was  in  those 
little  worn  blank  books.  Every  word  of  them  had 
been  written  by  her  own  hand.  She  began  with  his 
birth,  the  first  entry  being  made  as  soon  as  she  was 
able  to  hold  a  pen.  She  chronicled  religiously  every 
event  that  bore  even  the  remotest  relation  to  the  boy. 

320 


"  SONNY  BOY'S"  DIARY 

You  could  see  how  he  grew  into  her  life,  how  he 
became  a  part  of  it,  and,  finally,  as  the  years  passed 
by,  all  of  it.  There  was  nothing  that  he  did  or  said 
which  was  not  noted.  His  most  trivial  actions,  his 
most  unimportant  words,  were  all  faithfully  set  down 
and  commented  upon.  In  those  books  was  the  his- 
tory of  the  development  of  a  human  being, — nay,  the 
development  of  a  great  passion  as  well. 

As  he  grew  older,  and  his  mother  lost  successively 
his  father  and  the  two  little  girls,  it  was  easy  to  see 
how  the  boy  became  more  and  more  to  her.  The 
entries  were  longer  and  more  connected, — more  co- 
herent, I  should  say.  There  were  whole  pages  filled 
with  her  speculations  concerning  him.  She  set  down 
the  ambitions  she  had  cherished  for  his  work,  the 
hopes  born  in  her  heart  for  his  future,  her  dreams  of 
his  achievements  that  were  to  be ;  she  quoted  freely 
from  his  letters  when  he  was  away  at  school.  She 
inserted  photographs  of  him  in  all  stages  of  develop- 
ment. She  wrote  out  the  prayers  she  made  for  his 
welfare. 

The  entries  abounded  with  expressions  of  her  ever- 
growing, absorbing  love  for  him.  Yes,  and  when  he 
had  his  boyish  flirtations  and  had  evidently  written  to 
her  about  charming  girls  he  had  met,  the  jealousy  of 
a  mother's  heart  spoke  in  her  comments.  It  was 
quite  evident  to  me  as  I  read  on,  absorbed  in  it  all, 
that  she  would  never  be  able  to  bear  the  idea  of  any 
one  coming  between  her  and  that  lad.  How  she 
rejoiced  in  his  successes  and  love  for  her !  There 
were  troubles,  too, — illnesses,  scrapes ;  but  her  love 
•*  321 


"  SONNY  BOY'S"  DIARY 

never  wavered,  and  things  always  seemed  to  come 
right  in  the  end. 

I  could  see  that  the  keeping  of  that  diary  had  be- 
come a  passion  with  her.  She  confessed  herself  to  it 
as  a  devotee  might  to  some  spiritual  adviser.  She 
poured  out  her  heart  on  those  pages  which  no  living 
eye  but  mine  had  ever  seen,  I  verily  believe.  She 
was  absolutely  true  ;  entirely  frank.  The  book  was  a 
self-revelation,  all  unconscious.  I  could  see  the  en- 
nobling effect  of  that  great  passion.  She  grew  greater 
as  I  read  on  and  on.  A  soul  was  laid  bare  in  the 
written  pages.  I  seemed  to  be  treading  on  hallowed 
ground  as  I  tenderly  turned  the  faded  leaves.  No 
one  could  ever  have  spoken  aloud  as  she  wrote.  It's 
not  in  nature  to  do  so.  It  was  her  secret  heart,  her 
most  sacred  feelings,  her  inmost  soul  that  lived  and 
vibrated  in  the  silent  letters.  I  seemed  to  be  looking 
upon  things  not  meant  for  mortal  eyes. 

And  through  it  all  there  was  a  note  of  depreciation. 
Was  she,  could  she,  be  worthy  of  him?  Oh,  the 
sweetness  of  the  humility  of  a  mother ! 

But  I  cannot  linger  to  tell  all  the  story,  all  I  read, 
all  I  divined.  At  last  came  the  entries  of  the  present 
year.  When  he  had  gone  away  she  had  sworn  she 
would  be  brave.  He  was  a  soldier,  he  must  do  his 
duty  and  uphold  the  honored  name  of  his  father ; 
but,  oh,  the  anxiety  of  it  all !  I  could  see  that  it  had 
almost  killed  her ;  yet  she  had  kept  up  under  the 
dreadful  strain  until  the  news  of  his  death  came. 

I  am  not  ashamed  to  say  that  I  put  the  book  down 
and  cried  like  a  baby  when  I  read  what  she  had 

322 


"  SONNY  BOY'S"  DIARY 

written.  Broken-hearted  sentences,  bits  of  prayer, 
words  of  Scripture,  "Oh,  Absalom,  my  son,  my 
son  !"  Tears  on  the  pages.  The  leaves  were  alive 
with  her  words.  As  I  said,  they  spoke  as  no  human 
voice  could  have  spoken.  They  told  a  tale  which 
humanity  could  not  have  revealed.  And  her  heart 
was  broken. 

Then  came  the  entry  on  the  day  when  I  had  told 
her  she  was  doomed.  The  subdued  joy  with  which 
she  heard  the  news,  with  which  she  looked  forward  to 
the  prospect  of  a  speedy  meeting,  was  quite  evident 
One  phrase  struck  me  on  that  page  : 

"  The  work  of  years  is  over ;  I  lay  down  the  pen," 
she  had  written.  "Sonny  Boy" — she  never  failed 
to  use  that  title  ;  she  clung  to  it  the  more  tenaciously 
as  he  grew  older  ;  it  seemed  very  sweet  to  me — "  is 
gone  and  I  am  going,  thank  God  !  In  death  as  in 
life  we  will  be  together.  '  The  book  may  close  over' 
and  be  opened  no  more.  He  cannot  return  to  me, 
but  I  shall  go  to  him.  I  shall  write  no  more.  I  have 
left  directions  that  this  story  of  a  life — or  two  lives, 
his  and  mine — shall  be  burned  when  I  am  gone  to 
meet  Sonny  Boy." 

But  on  the  next  page  the  entries  began  again. 
She  had  taken  up  her  wonted  life-long  task  once 
more  when  she  found  that  he  was  living.  Curiously 
enough,  while  there  was  joy  in  the  pages  now,  I 
seemed  to  read  in  them  more  of  regret — in  spite  of 
herself.  The  doom  written  against  her  could  not  be 

323 


"  SONNY  BOY'S"  DIARY 

revoked.  Yet  the  conditions  were  changed.  She 
had  to  look  forward  to  a  long  parting  instead  of  an 
eternal  meeting,  and  it  hurt  her.  Yet  she  must  live 
until  he  came  back.  I  saw  it  was  her  will  power 
alone  that  kept  her  up.  She  must  see  him  again 
before  she  went  out  into  the  dark,  or  the  light  rather, 
to  wait  for  him. 

So,  in  a  hand  that  grew  more  feeble  from  day  to 
day,  she  jotted  down  her  hopes  and  longings  for  her 
son.  How  much  the  trembling  letters  told  of  her 
growing  weakness  !  how  different  were  the  characters 
from  the  bold,  flowing,  graceful  writing  of  the  begin- 
ning ! 

Finally  I  came  to  the  entry — the  last — on  the  day 
she  had  received  the  news  of  his  approaching  mar- 
riage. Oh,  the  anguish  that  ran  through  the  written 
words  !  They  seemed  to  gasp  out  her  grief  from  the 
page  ;  sometimes  I  could  scarcely  decipher  them.  I 
turned  back  to  the  entry  following  the  report  of  his 
death,  and  I  declare  it  was  no  more  heart-broken. 
Another  woman  had  come  between  them.  With  un- 
conscious cruelty,  in  that  fatal  letter  George  had  told 
her  over  and  over  again  how  much  he  loved  the 
woman  he  was  about  to  marry.  She  could  not  get 
away  from  it  Innocently  enough,  he  had  given  her 
to  understand  that  he  loved  the  girl  more  than  all  the 
world.  Thoughtlessly  he  plunged  this  dagger  into 
his  gentle  mother's  heart. 

I  didn't  blame  him  for  his  feelings.  He  could  not 
help  them  ;  and,  as  I  said,  it  was  human  nature  any- 
way. The  experience  is  common  to  every  mother  in 

324 


"  SONNY  BOY'S"  DIARY 

greater  or  less  degree.  She  had  to  expect  it,  or  she 
ought  to  have  done  so.  Still,  I  did  wish  he  had  not 
been  quite  so  enthusiastic  ;  not  that  it  would  have 
made  much  difference,  for  it  was  the  fact  that  killed. 
His  mother  had  intuition  enough,  she  loved  him 
enough  to  divine  the  truth  through  any  reticence. 

"  I  can't  bear  it,"  I  read,  "  to  know  that  I  have  no 
longer  the  first  place,  that  another  woman  is  nearer 
to  him  than  I.  To  feel  that  the  first  of  his  love  is 
given  to  a  stranger  !  The  best  of  his  heart  is  hers  ! 
Who  is  she  ?  What  right  had  she  to  come  between 
us  ?  What  has  she  done  for  him  compared  to  me  ? 
Ever  since  he  was  first  put  in  my  arms,  ever  since  I 
heard  him  cry  the  first  time  after  the  awful  pain  and 
anguish  of  deliverance,  he  has  been  mine  !  Mine  ! 
Mine  !  And  she  has  taken  him  !  Oh,  God,  pity 
me  !  I  cannot  give  him  up  and  live  !  He  must  not 
bring  her  here.  I  shall  never  like  her  !  I  hate  her  ! 
I  do  not  believe  she  is — Oh,  how  wicked  I  am  ! 
And  he  will  be  so  happy  while  I  suffer  !  I'm  glad  he 
will  be  happy — but  it  kills  me.  Thank  God  !  it  will 
not  be  for  long.  I  don't  want  to  see  her.  Pity  me, 
my  Saviour  !  You  had  a  mother  !  I  am  an  old, 
lonely,  dying  woman.  Mercy,  mercy  !  I  don't  want 
to  see  him — either — that  I  should  write  it — my  son  ! 
with  a  light  in  his  eyes  and  love  in  his  voice  for  an- 
other woman.  I  shall  die  now.  Perhaps  I  may  find 
comfort  then.  But  I  shall  never  forget.  He  wrote 
about  her  on  seven  pages  of  his  letter,  and  one  was 
enough  for  me.  Oh,  Sonny  Boy,  to  lose  you,  to — 

325 


"  SONNY  BOY'S"  DIARY 

your  little  old  mother  is  breaking  her  heart  !  Be 
assured  of  one  thing,  my  son,  I  love  you  and  I  have 
loved  you  better  than  any  one  in  the  whole  world 
will  ever  love  you" — these  were  the  words  she  had 
whispered  to  me  on  her  death-bed — "  no  matter  how 
much  joy  you  may  have,  how  much  happiness,  no 
matter  where  you  may  go,  whom  you  may  meet,  what 
they  may  say,  no  one  in  this  world  will  ever  love  you 
as  I  have.  No  one  will  ever  think  of  you  as  your 
mother." 

That  was  all.     And  I'm  afraid  it  was  true. 

"  There  is  none 

In  all  this  cold  and  hollow  world,  no  fount 
Of  deep,  strong,  deathless  love,  save  that  within 
A  mother's  heart." 

I  sat  there  in  the  gray  of  the  morning  with  the 
open  book  in  my  hand.  She  had  told  me  to  give 
the  volumes  to  George  when  he  returned,  and  I  could 
not — if  I  desired  to  do  so — disregard  her  wish  ;  yet 
to  lay  before  him  the  sorrow,  the  regret,  the  sadness 
of  that  last  entry  :  to  leave  with  him  that  final  thought 
of  his  mother,  to  cloud  his  wedded  life  with  a  suspicion 
which  I  knew  he  could  never  dispel,  that  his  joy  had 
been  her  death,  his  marriage  had  broken  her  heart — 
I  could  not  do  it  1  Still,  to  withhold  from  that  boy 
the  last  words  of  his  mother — it  did  not  seem  right ! 

What  did  I  do?  you  ask.  Well,  with  a  horribly 
guilty  feeling,  I  cut  the  last  leaf  containing  those 
terribly  piteous  words  out  of  the  diary.  I  did  it 

326 


"  SONNY  BOY'S"  DIARY 

carefully  so  that  he  would  never  know  that  anything 
had  been  taken  away.  I  felt  like  a  thief  all  the  time, 
somehow. 

I  did  not  destroy  the  leaf.  I  could  not  do  so.  I 
put  it  away  carefully  with  my  other  treasures,  and 
when  George  came  home  with  his  sweet,  beautiful 
young  wife, — and  I  thanked  God  he  had  her  to  help 
him  bear  his  unfeigned  sorrow  at  the  loss  of  his 
mother, — I  gave  him  the  diary  without  the  missing 
leaf;  and  her  last  message  to  him,  as  I  delivered  it, 
was  one  simply  of  love  and  blessing.  And  I  almost 
felt  as  if  his  mother  thanked  me  for  it.  I  hope  so. 

I  take  out  that  missing  leaf  sometimes  when  I  am 
alone  in  my  study,  and  read  it  over  and  wonder 
whether,  after  all,  I  did  right  or  not 


327 


EXTRAVAGANZAS 


"  'Tis  a  pleasure  to  please,  and  the  straw  that  can  tickle  us 
Is  a  source  of  enjoyment,  though  slightly  ridiculous." 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 

"  A  careless  song  with  a  little  nonsense  in  it  now  and  then 
does  not  misbecome  a  monarch.  " 

WALPOLE 


AN  ACCOUNT  OF  AN  UNUSUAL  PRIZE 

"  Now  this  is  the  tale  that  was  told  to  me 
By  a  battered  and  shattered  old  son  of  the  sea, 
To  me  and  my  messmate,  Silas  Green, 
When  I  was  a  guileless  young  marine." 

ANCIENT  SBA  SONG 


| 


HE  second  dog-watch,  from  six  to  eight 
in  the  evening,  is  the  sailor's  play-time. 
Unless  some  emergency  requires  it, 
drills  and  duties  are  suspended  for  the 
time  being  and  Jackie,  except  for 
supper,  has  his  time  to  himself.  The  older  seamen 
usually  collect  on  the  forecastle  ;  sometimes  in  the  lee 
gangway  in  rough  weather.  There  they  sprawl  them- 
selves on  the  deck,  or  dispose  themselves  comfortably 
against  the  rails  or  the  bitts,  or  even  the  anchor-fluke, 
if  every  place  is  occupied,  or  the  boom  boats  if  the 
waist  be  the  place  of  assemblage,  and  smoke  their 
pipes  and  yarn. 

The  ordinary  seamen,  the  landsmen,  and  the  ship's 
boys,  if  they  are  not  rigorously  excluded  from  the 
top-gallant  forecastle,  or  from  close  proximity  to  the 
group  of  worthies  who  literally  "take  the  deck,"  are 
forced  to  stand  afar  off,  at  any  rate,  where  they  listen 
to  marvellous  recitals  as  best  they  can.  The  midship- 


THE  AMAZING  YARN  OF  THE  Bo'sVs  MATE 

men,  however,  as  a  species  of  privileged  intermediaries 
between  officers  and  men,  often  make  a  part  of  these 
exclusive  circles,  especially  when  yarning  is  going  on. 

Among  all  the  tellers  of  strange  tales  on  the  famous 
United  States  frigate  Neversink,  Jack  Lang,  the  old 
bo's'n's  mate,  held  the  chief  place  by  general  consent, 
and  the  sound  of  his  deep  voice  raised  in  narration 
was  sure  to  attract  to  his  side  every  available  reefer 
not  specifically  on  duty,  and  all  the  old  shellbacks, 
to  whom  yarning  and  listening  to  yarns  were  as  the 
breath  of  life.  And  nowhere  will  you  find  better  lis- 
teners than  at  a  dog-watch  "  gam"  on  a  ship's  fore- 
castle. The  old  man's  services  on  the  Never  sink  were 
invaluable  in  every  way,  his  word  was  law  forward  of 
the  mast  as  the  captain's  was  on  the  quarter-deck, 
and  even  as  a  story-teller  he  was  supreme. 

One  mild,  pleasant  evening  this  before-the-mast 
autocrat  and  raconteur  found  himself  the  centre  of  an 
interested  group  on  the  forecastle.  The  midshipmen 
were  burning  for  a  yarn.  They  had  learned,  however, 
that  the  surest  way  not  to  have  their  desire  gratified 
was  to  ask  a  sailor  for  a  story.  Certainly  this  was 
true  of  this  particular  old  salt,  and  it  was  necessary  to 
approach  him  by  indirection.  The  conversation 
turned,  as  it  frequently  does  in  the  forecastle,  on  the 
quarter-deck,  and  everywhere  else,  on  woman. 

"  Wot's  the  matter  with  leetle  Sammy  Bowline  ?" 
queried  the  old  man  in  a  pause  in  the  conversation. 
"  I  seed  him  a-weepin'  an'  a-bellerin'  like  wot  you 
Yankees  call  a  '  caow'  in  the  fust  dog-watch." 

"  A  cow  don't  weep,  Jack,"  answered  a  maintop- 
332 


THE  AMAZING  YARN  OF  THE  Bo'sVs  MATE 

man  who  had  been  a  lumbering  bucolic  dairyman 
when  the  Neversink  left  port  six  months  since,  but 
who  was  now  a  smart  young  light  yardman. 

"  Hev  you  seen  all  the  cow  critters  on  the  yearth, 
youngster  ?" 

"  No,  but " 

"  Well,  some  cows  weeps,  I  sez,  an'  this'n'  did," 
answered  the  old  sailor,  sententiously.  "  Anyway, 
Sammy  Bowline,  he  bawled  awful." 

"  I  reckon  he's  homesick  fer  his  ma,"  remarked 
Billy  Clumpblock,  the  captain  of  the  maintop.  "I 
just  guv  him  a  few  teches  with  me  colt  to  take  it 
out'n  him,  w'ich  I've  larned  that  w'alin'  is  werry  good 
fer  homesickness,  an'  sent  him  up  in  the  top,  as  he 
calls  it,  to  'spell  a  watch.'  " 

"  It's  a  sing'lar  thing,"  continued  the  old  bo's'n's 
mate,  "  how  much  men  an'  boys  thinks  of  feemales, 
sech  as  mothers  an'  sech  like  pussons.  It  stands  ter 
reason  thay  ain't  necessary  to  nobody's  existence, 
though  it's  agreed  that  we  all  had  'em  onct,  though 
I've  got  no  evidence  of  it  in  my  own  case  'ceptin' 
general  report  Look  at  this  ship,  now.  There  ain't 
a  woman  on  board  of  her,  an'  if  they  was,  she'd  be 
considerably  disorganized,  w'ich  I  means  the  ship  an' 
p'raps  the  feemale  too." 

"They  seems  ter  be  necessary  on  shore,  though," 
remarked  the  chief  quartermaster,  a  much-married 
man. 

"  P'raps  they  be.     But  they're  no  'count  on  sea." 

"  I've  heered  them  called  the  weaker  sex,"  said  the 
purser's  yeoman,  who  was  fond  of  literature  of  the 

333 


THE  AMAZING  YARN  OF  THE  BO'S'N'S  MATE 

dime  novel  variety.  "  I  guess  that's  becus  they  can't 
make  sailor-men  out'n  'em." 

"Wall,  naow,"  drawled  the  Jack-o'-the-dust,  a 
studious  New  Englander,  given  to  historic  research  as 
he  could  manage  it,  "  there  hev  been  wimmin  sailor- 
men.  I've  read  abaout  'em.  There  was  two  pyrates 
once  an'  they  was  wimmin.  An'  they  was  the  wust 
kind  of  pyrates,  too." 

"  That's  nateral,"  said  the  autocrat  of  the  forecastle  ; 
"  it  stands  ter  reason  that  a  woman' d  be  a  bad  sailor 
an'  she'd  also  make  a  bad  pirate." 

"They  wus  good  pyrates,"  continued  the  down- 
easter. 

"  Good  pirates  ?  There  ain't  no  sech  thing," 
chimed  in  another  sailor,  filling  the  responsible  posi- 
tion of  captain  of  the  hold. 

"  I  mean  they  wus  bludthirsty  feemale  villains,  an' 
they  done  the  pyrate  bisness  up  jest's  fine's  if  they'd 
a-bin  men." 

"  I  had  an  amazin'  experience  with  wimmin  onct," 
said  the  old  bo's'n's  mate,  reflectively. 

"I  should  say  you  had,"  broke  in  a  young  midship- 
man ;  "  I've  heard  you  speak  of  your  '  ol'  woman' 
hundreds  of  times,  and  all  the  trouble  you've  caused 
her." 

"  I  don't  mean  her,  Mr.  Bobstay.  God  rest  her 
soul  ;  she's  dead,  sir  ;  an',  as  fer  the  kids,  my  darter's 
married  an'  the  boys  is  God  knows  where.  I  brung  'em 
up  ter  be  good  sailor-men,  though,  an'  wherever  they 
is,  I  guess  they're  a-doin'  of  their  dooty.  This  was 
another  kind  of  a  feemale.  You  see,  lads  an'  young 

334 


THE  AMAZING  YARN  OF  THE  BO'S'N'S  MATE 

gentlemen  all,  in  the  Med't'ranean  in  1800  I  was 
bo's'n's  mate,  an',  like  this  yere  ship,  we  didn't  kerry 
no  bo's'n  on  the  little  hooker  Grampus,  the  luckiest 
barkie  that  ever  carried  the  American  flag.  She  was 
schooner  rigged  w'en  I  was  on  her.  Then  they  turned 
her  inter  a  brig,  an'  now  they're  thinkin'  o'  makin' 
a  full-rigged  ship  of  her.  They've  done  everything 
they  kin  to  spile  her.  She's  the  slowest  old  tub  afloat 
now,  I'm  telled,  but  let  anything  British  take  arter  her 
an'  she  jest  naterally  takes  a  bone  in  her  teeth  an'  rips 
away.  Lordie,  to  think  of  that  little  ship  a-doin'  all 
the  things  she's  done  !  Wall,  where  was  I,  mates?" 

"  You  wa'n't  now' ere.  You  was  gittin'  ready  to  go 
som'er's,  tho',  I  guess,"  said  the  quartermaster. 

"To  be  sure.  Wall,  as  I  was  sayin',  I  was  bo's'n's 
mate,  an'  that  was  bein'  ekal  to  bein'  bo's'n  on  that 
'ere  schooner,  an'  Commodore  Rattlin  was  jest  takin' 
command  of  her.  My,  but  he's  a  sailor  an'  a  fighter  ! 
I  never  seed  any  one  like  him  an'  I  have  fit  in  some 
right  good  hard  battles  sence,  onless  'twas  Commodore 
Paul  Jones,  w'en  we  tuk  the  Serrypis  nigh  onto  forty 
years  ago.  I  was  a  smart  young  foretopman  in  them 
days,  lads,  an'  it  was  me  wot  the  commodore  sent  out 
on  that  main-yard-arm  to  drop  them  grenades  down  the 
hatchway  of  the  Serrypis  that  blowed  her  up.  So  I 
allus  thought  that  I  won  a  deal  of  that  battle  myself, 
though  the  commodore  got  the  most  credit.  Let's 
see.  Were  was  I  ?" 

"You  was  on  the  Grampus  w'ich  Commodore 
Rattlin  was  takin'  command  of,"  said  the  Jimmy- 
Legs,  lighting  his  pipe. 

335 


THE  AMAZING  YARN  OF  THE  Bo'sVs  MATE 

"  So  I  was.  So  I  was,  tho'  he  was  only  a  leftenant 
then,  lads,"  continued  the  old  man.  "Wall,  we  was 
mighty  keen  for  prize  money  in  them  days,  an',  fer 
that  matter,  I  ain't  never  seed  the  day,  so  far's  I'm 
consarned,  w'en  I  wasn't  ekally  desirous  of  gittin'  my 
share  of  the  same.  Now,  you  youngsters,  an'  you 
haymakers, — w'ich  is  a  bit  unjest  to  you,  p'r'aps,  becus 
you've  larned  to  be  putty  fair  sailor-men  sence  we 
tuk  our  departure  from  Boston, — ye  know  prize 
money's  divided  into  twenty  parts  by  the  laws  of 
the  United  States.  The  cap'n  he  gits  three  parts  ;  the 
leftenants  an'  sailin' -master,  they  gits  two  parts  ;  the 
marine  officers,  surgeon,  purser,  bo's'n,  gunner,  car- 
penter, master's  mates,  an'  chaplain,  they  gits  two  ; 
three  parts  goes  to  the  steerage  an'  chief  petty  officers, 
the  other  petty  officers  gits  three,  an'  the  balance  of 
the  crew  gits  seven." 

"Seems  to  me  the  crew  don't  git  no  fair  share," 
interrupted  one  of  the  new  hands. 

"We're  lucky  to  git  anything  at  all,"  commented 
the  old  sea  philosopher.  "They  used  to  say  you 
throwed  the  prize  money  at  a  ladder.  Wot  went 
through  was  diwided  betwixt  the  cap'n  an'  th'  officers 
an'  petty  officers,  the  cap'n  takin'  the  biggest  share. 
Wot  stuck  to  the  rounds  was  fer  the  crew.  An'  if 
they  hadn't  tarred  the  rounds  in  sum  instances  I 
knows  of,"  he  went  on,  mendaciously,  "they  wouldn't 
a-got  none.  Howsomever,  this  yere  explanation  is 
necessary  fer  to  understand  this  yarn." 

"  I'd  like  to  know  wot  prize  money's  got  to  do  with 
wimmin,"  remarked  Billy  Clumpblock. 

336 


THE  AMAZING  YARN  OF  THE  BO'S'N'S  MATE 

"My  lad,"  said  the  bo's'n's  mate,  sapiently,  "prize 
money's  got  a  lot  to  do  with  wimmin,  as  you'll  find 
out,  especially  if  you  go  ashore  with  a  pocketful  of 
it.  It  had  suthin'  to  do  with  the  wimmin  I'm  goin'  to 
tell  ye  of,  anyway.  One  pleasant  day  in  December, 
1803,  we  was  a  ratchin'  to  an'  fro  in  the  Med't'ranean 
on  the  Grampus  a-lookin'  out  fer  Algerian  cruisers, 
w'en  we  run  acrost  a  ketch." 

"What's  a  ketch,  Jack?"  asked  one  midshipman. 

"Well,  a  ketch — an'  the  rest  on  you  pay  attention, 
too  ;  if  ye  just  take  notice  to  wotever  I  says,  ye  lub- 
bers, you'll  soon  know  a  heap  about  the  sea  an'  other 
things.  Bein'  a  silent  man  myself,  I  don't  say  much, 
as  ye  may  hev  noticed  ;  therefur,  w'en  I  do  say  suthin' 
it's  wal'able.  A  ketch  is  a  wessel  wot  has  one  big 
mast  set  well  aft  about  midships  an'  a  little  one  way 
aft  of  the  fust  one.  This  is  to  leave  a  cl'ar  space 
forrard  fer  a  bum  [bomb].  They're  mostly  used  fer 
that,  w'ich  is  w'y  they  are  called  bum  ketches,  ye 
know.  This  one,  however,  had  a  cargo  more  danger- 
ous an'  onsettlin'  than  bums  would  ha'  been,  fer  w'en 
we  ranged  alongside  an'  throwed  a  shot  over  her,  you 
never  heered  sech  a  screechin'  an'  yellin'  in  all  yer  life. 

"  'Good  Lord  !'  said  Cap'n  Rattlin  out  loud,  w'ich 
as  he  was  young  an'  impulsive  like  an'  not  used  to 
controllin'  his  feelin's  like  me,  he  jest  spoke  right  out. 
'  Good  Lord  !'  he  sez,  '  wot  hev  we  run  inter  ?' 

"  '  It  'pears  to  me,'  spoke  up  Mr.  Parbuckle,  actin' 

as  his  first  luff,  w'ich  he  was  only  a  midshipman  an' 

had  no  experience  wotever  with  the  feemale  sex, — but 

I've  allus  noticed  that  it's  them  as  has  little  experience 

*»  337 


THE  AMAZING  YARN  OF  THE  Bo'sVs  MATE 

as  knows  the  most,  specially  'bout  wimmin, — '  it  'pears 
to  me/  he  sez,  '  that  them's  wimmin.' 

"'Wimmin?'  roars  the  cap'n.  'Wot  are  they 
a-doin'  there?  Well,'  he  sez,  'we'll  soon  find  out,' 
sez  he.  With  that  he  shoved  the  schooner  in  clus  to 
the  ketch  an'  hailed  her.  Of  course,  the  conwersation 
bein'  carried  on  in  lingo  Franco,  w'ich  I  understands, 
it  was  all  werry  clear  to  me,  an'  I  told  the  rest  of  the 
fok's'l  wot  was  happ'nin'. 

"  '  Ahoy  !'  the  cap'n  cried,  '  wot  ship  is  that  ?'  An' 
then  a  measly  old  Turk  he  come  over  to  the  side  an' 
throwed  his  flag  in  the  water  an'  waved  his  arms  an' 
bowed  to  the  deck,  but  didn't  say  nuthin'.  He  was 
so  skeered  he  was  most  frightened  out  of  his  baggy 
britches.  He  could  see  the  smokin'  matches,  an'  we 
was  jest  itchin'  to  turn  our  guns  loose  on  the  old 
heathen,  with  his  wildcats,  or  wotever  they  was.  The 
cap'n  bein'  young  an'  impetuous  like,  he  hails  ag'in. 
He  sez, — 

'"W'y  don't  you  answer  me?'  he  sez.  'Ain't  ye 
got  no  tongue?'  he  sez.  'Don't  you  hear  me? 
Were  are  you  from  ?  Were  are  you  bound  ?  Wot 
hev  ye  got  on  board  ?  If  ye  don't  speak  up  I'll  turn 
a  broadside  on  ye.' 

"With  that  that  old  Turk  he  unstoppered  his  jaw 
tackle  an'  reels  off  an  extr'ordin'ry  lot  o'  stuff,  but 
we  makes  out,  me  an'  the  cap'n  does,  that  he  was 
from  Tripoli  three  days  out.  That  his  ketch's  name 
was  the  Stamico,  or  sum  sech  other  outlandish  name, 
an'  that  she  was  loaded  with  feemale  slaves  fer  the 
Sultan  of  Turkeys. 

338 


THE  AMAZING  YARN  OF  THE  BO'S'N'S  MATE 

"  Gosh-o' -mighty,  if  the  cap'n  hadn't  insisted  all  the 
time  on  the  most  sharpest  dissypline  on  that  there  leetle 
ship,  I'd  a  yelled  an'  laughed  outrajus,  an'  the  men 
would  hev  busted  inter  cheers.  As  it  was,  I  didn't 
dare  to  tell  the  crew  all  that  bit  of  news  ;  I  jest  guv 
'em  a  leetle  to  keep  'em  goin'  an'  hove  to  under  the 
lee  of  the  foremast  where  nobody  seed  me  an'  cut 
loose  a  few  steps  myself. 

"  'This  is  a  putty  how-de-do,'  sez  Cap'n  Rattlin. 

"  '  Wot'll  we  do,  sir?'  axes  Mr.  Parbuckle.  '  Wot'll 
we  do  with  them  feemale  slaves  ?  I  reckon  we'll 
have  to  bring  'em  aboard  here,  fer  we  can't  let  the 
ketch  go/  sez  that  youngster. 

"  He  was  as  excited  as  any  of  us,  an'  I  reckon  the 
cap'n  was  hisself,  if  the  truth  was  to  be  told.  Sech  a 
prize  as  that  ain't  picked  up  every  day  at  sea,  ye 
know,  shipmates. 

"  '  You  know  old  Commodore  Ringtailboom,'  con- 
tinoos  Mr.  Parbuckle,  grave-like  ;  '  you  know,  sir,  he 
wants  a  boat  jest  like  this  ketch  for  inshore  work.' 

" '  You're  right,  sir,  sez  Rattlin,  werry  solemn ; 
'take  a  boat,  Mr.  Parbuckle,  an'  go  over  there  an' 
tell  that  beastly  Turk  we'll  have  to  transship  his  cargo 
over  here  aboard  the  Grampus' 

"I  was  cox'n  of  that  boat,  young  gentlemen,  an* 
we  went  off  armed  to  the  teeth,  not  so  much  fer  fear 
of  the  Turks,  but  on  account  of  them  feemales.  You 
see,  we  didn't  know  wot'd  happen  to  us  with  a  ketch 
load  of  wimmin  folk,  an'  we  went  prepared  fer  the 
wust.  Wall,  may  I  be  jiggle-toggled,  shipmates,  but 
sech  a  screechin'  an'  yellin'  you  never  heered  w'en 

339 


THE  AMAZING  YARN  OF  THE  Bo'sVs  MATE 

we  got  aboard.  Bein'  a  chief  petty  officer  an'  the 
next  in  command,  as  it  was,  an'  the  most  experienced, 
bein'  a  married  man,  Mr.  Parbuckle,  he  tells  me  to  go 
below  an'  see  wot  I  could  make  out  of  the  lot,  w'ile 
he  speaks  to  the  beastly  Turkey  cap'n.  Fer  a  reefer, 
young  gentlemen,"  said  the  old  sailor,  "he  was  the 
bashfullest  feller  I  ever  seed.  'Tis  a  rare  and  onset- 
tlin'  quality  in  the  class, — meanin'  no  offence,"  he 
added,  amid  a  general  laugh,  in  which  the  midship- 
men heartily  joined.  "I  didn't  want  nuthin'  better'n 
that  job,  so  I  jumped  below  to  tackle  it,  took  off  my 
hat,  an'  sez,  most  pleasant  like,  'Ladies,  yer  most 
obejient  an'  'umble  sarvant' 

"They  all  run  forrard  at  that  an'  crowded  inter  the 
eyes  of  the  ship  to  git  away  from  me.  I  suppose  I 
must  ha'  looked  mighty  fierce,  wot  with  cutlass  an' 
pistol  an'  the  pigtail  we  allus  wore  them  days,  an' 
w'en  I  tried  to  tell  'em  that  I  come  peaceable  like, 
they  was  makin'  sech  a  noise  that  they  didn't  seem 
to  pay  no  'tention  to  wot  I  said.  I  thought  the  best 
way  to  ca'm  'em  an'  to  assure  'em  of  my  peaceful 
intentions  was — well — er — I  jest  caught  the  nearest 
one  by  the  arm,  slipped  my  own  arm  'bout  her  waist, 
an' — an' — smacked  her  good  !" 

"Oh,  Jack,  you  old  sinner!"  yelled  the  youngsters 
in  chorus. 

"  Dooty,  gentlemen  ;  a  true  sailor-man  is  allus  ready 
to  sakerfice  hisself  fer  his  country,  an'  I  done  it  cheer- 
ful then,  bein'  as  'twas  in  the  line  of  dooty." 

"I  guess  you  did,"  said  Midshipman  Cringle, 
sagely. 

34o 


THE  AMAZING  YARN  OF  THE  Bo'sVs  MATE 

"Thankee,  sir,"  continued  the  bo's'n's  mate, 
oblivious  to  the  sarcasm.  "She  yelled  sum  at  fust, 
but  she  seemed  to  like  it.  Of  course,  I  repeats,  it 
was  all  one  to  me,  jest  in  the  line  of  duty,  as  I  sez, 
though  I  hev  done  more  disagreeable  jobs  than  that. 
I  jest  patted  her  on  the  head  a  bit  w'en  I  got  hold  of 
her,  an'  told  her  to  ca'm  down,  that  we  wa'n't  goin'  to 
hurt  her,  an'  she  seemed  to  feel  summat  assured,  but, 
as  we  arterwards  larned,  she  didn't  understand  a  word 
I  was  a-sayin*  !  Howsomever,  suthin'  satisfied  her. 
Perhaps  'twas  my  actions.  Well,  now,  you  young- 
sters, you  must  remember  that  I  was  younger  then 
than  I  am  now,  an'  there  wa'n't  a  likelier  sailor-man  on 
the  sea,  ef  I  do  say  so  myself.  The  rest  of  the  cargo 
stopped  makin'  that  infernal  noise  w'en  they  seed  wot 
was  happ'nin',  an' " 

"Jack  !"  said  Midshipman  Futtocks,  severely,  "and 
you  an  old  man  !  I'm  ashamed  of  you  !" 

"  Mr.  Futtocks,"  said  the  old  sailor,  "as  I  hev  said, 
it  was  strictly  in  the  line  of  dooty,  an'  I  was  a  young 
man  at  that  time,  sir.  Mr.  Parbuckle,  he  ordered  me 
to  pacify  'em,  an'  I  was  a-doin'  the  best  I  could.  I 
was  only  a  poor  ignorant  sailor-man  in  them  days, 
an'  couldn't  be  blamed  fer  a  thing  like  that.  W'ich 
I've  got  more  experience  now,  tho'  I  don't  say  I 
wouldn't  be  willin'  to  sakerfice  my  feelin's  to  my  dooty 
again  if  'twas  demanded  of  me.  Well,  I  got  'em 
quiet  by  this  means,  anyway,  w'ich  I'm  sorry  to  say 
you  blames  me  fer,  but  w'ich  my  conscience  is  clear, 
an'  I  wish  1  could  do  it  ag'in,  an'  I  got  'em  up  on 
deck,  too. 


THE  AMAZING  YARN  OF  THE  BO'S'N'S  MATE 

"  '  How  did  you  get  'em  quiet,  Jack  ?'  axed  Mr. 
Parbuckle,  who  was  busy  arrangin'  with  the  measly 
old  Turkey  w'en  he  seed  me  a  leadin'  'em  from 
below. 

"'Well,  sir,'  sez  I,  'I  jest  hauled  alongside  the 
nearest  one,  hove  to,  laid  her  aboard,  an'  s' luted  her 
with  a  few  light  guns,  an'  the  rest  stopped  a-yellin'  at 
onct' 

"  '  Gad,  man  !'  said  the  youngster,  'you've  a  genius 
fer  dealin'  with  wimmin.'  W'ich  I  tuk  as  a  compli- 
ment, altho'  comin'  from  one  with  no  experience. 
Anyway,  we  got  'em  aboard  the  Grampus  all  right 
arter  aw'ile,  an'  ranged  'em  on  the  quarter-deck. 
We  didn't  lose  a  solitary  one,  tho'  they  did  beller 
an'  bawl  wuss'n  Sammy  Bowline  at  gittin'  into  the 
cutter.  Mr.  Parbuckle  he  was  left  in  command  of 
the  prize,  an'  he  a-protestin'  bitterly;  but  the  cap'n  he 
sez  he  might  send  some  of  the  prize  over  arter  aw'ile 
to  keep  him  company,  but  fer  the  present  they  must 
be  mustered  on  the  Grampus.  Wall,  we  claimed  that 
they  all  must  be  diwided  up  accordin'  to  law,  bein'  a 
lawful  prize,  an'  we  wasn't  goin'  to  wait  fer  no  prize 
court,  nuther.  The  cap'n,  bein'  only  a  boy,  he  was 
in  fer  a  lark  like  the  rest  on  us,  so  he  mustered  the 
crew  an'  he  made  a  speech. 

"  '  Men,'  he  sez,  '  as  you  knows,  the  prize  laws  of 
the  United  States  diwides  the  prizes  inter  twenty  parts. 
There  ain't  no  money,  but  there  are  one  hundred  an' 
twenty  feemale  wimmin  in  this  lot  w'ich  we've  tuk. 
That's  six  wimmin  to  a  part.  I  gits  three,  an'  I'll 
make  my  ch'ice  now.  Ladies,  yer  most  obejient,' 

342 


THE  AMAZING  YARN  OF  THE  Bo'sVs  MATE 

he  sez,  grinnin'  at  'em,  an'  them  a-grinnin'  back, 
becus,  like  me,  he  was  young  an'  well  favored  them 
days,  an'  the  feemales  was  havin'  great  larks,  too. 
Then  he  steps  forrard  and  picks  out  eighteen  of  the 
youngest  and  purtiest  Among  'em  was  the  one  I 
endeavored  to  impress  myself  on  the  ketch,  an'  as  she 
passed  me  she  made  languishin*  eyes  at  me  ;  but  she 
had  to  go  with  the  rest,  me  bein'  only  a  bo's'n's  mate. 
So  the  cap'n  he  ranged  his  eighteen  aft  on  deck,  then 
the  leftenants  tuk  their  turn,  an'  the  cap'n  he  chose 
fer  Mr.  Parbuckle,  w'ich  he  was  on  the  prize  an' 
couldn't  choose  hisself,  an'  a  mad  young  officer  he 
was,  too,  seein'  plain  wot  was  a-goin'  on  an'  him  not 
there.  Wall,  arter  the  cap'n,  the  leftenants,  an'  the 
chief  petty  officers  tuk  their  share,  blast  my  eyes  if 
there  wa'n't  left  an  assortment  of  the  ugliest  old  wrecks 
you  ever  seed — forty-two  of  'em — for  the  crew,  an' 
them  jest  beginnin'  to  understand  the  game,  too," 
said  Jack,  laughing,  "  fer  they  showed  the  greatest 
willin'ness  to  be  tuk.  An'  sum  of  'em  must  ha'  been 
old  enough  fer  grandmothers,  too. 

"We  carried  about  eighty  of  a  crew,  w'ich  meant 
there  wa'n't  enough  to  go  round.  There  was  an  awful 
lot  of  protestin'  from  the  crew  on  the  Grampus  over 
this  yere  diwidin'  business.  They  said  it  wa'n't  no  fair. 
But  the  cap'n,  he  sez,  it  was  accordin'  to  law,  an'  we 
was  lucky  to  get  what  was  there,  an'  to  hurry  an'  pick 
'em  out  So  we  turned  to,  an'  then  sech  a  screamin' 
you  never  seed  !  Each  woman  had  two  men  a-holdin' 
each  arm  an'  claimin'  of 'em,  an'  we  was  a-pullin'  an' 
a-haulin'  an'  a-laughin'  all  over  the  decks. 

343 


THE  AMAZING  YARN  OF  THE  Bo'sVs  MATE 

"  I  tell  ye,  messmates,  a  shipload  of  feemales  is  the 
most  disorganizin'  body  that  kin  board  a  ship-o'-war. 
Ef  the  old  Confederation,  the  flag-ship,  hadn't  a- 
hove  in  sight  jest  then,  I  don't  know  wot'd  a-hap- 
pened.  We  was  so  okerpied  in  this  diwidin'  bisness 
that  nobody  was  a-watchin'  out  fer  her.  We  was  a- 
scramblin'  an'  a-dancin'  an'  a-raisin'  Ned,  an'  the 
cap'n  was  a-protestin'  an'  a-tryin'  to  restore  order, 
w'en  the  old  frigate  shoved  alongside,  an'  Commodore 
Ringtailboom  was  that  rageful  he  could  hardly  speak 
w'en  he  sees  us  all.  He  settled  the  hull  thing  by 
takin'  all  them  feemales  on  board  his  own  ship  an' 
then  sendin'  'em  to  Algiers  an'  settin'  'em  free  till  the 
Turkeys  got  a  hold  of  'em  ag'in,  w'ich  we  never  seed 
'em  ag'in.  Cap'n  Rattlin  he  got  transferred  to  the 
frigate  to  onct  fer  punishment,  an'  we  was  scattered 
among  the  fleet,  cos  they  said  'twarn't  safe  to  leave 
sech  a  crowd  together  no  more. 

"  Shipmates,  we  was  only  jokin'  about  diwidin'  of 
'em,  but  arter  the  commodore  crossed  our  course  we 
was  the  maddest  lot  of  officers  an'  men  you  ever  seed, 
but  that  was  all  there  was  to  it  You  can  be  sure  that 
nobody  never  got  athwart  the  hawse  of  Commodore 
Ringtailboom  deliberate  ;  he  was  a  peppery  old  gent, 
sure,  an'  'twas  as  much  as  a  man's  life  was  worth  to 
go  agin  him. 

"Now,  that's  an  example  of  how  disorganisin' 
wimmin  'ud  be  on  board  a  ship." 

"Jack,"  said  little  Futtocks,  amid  the  laughter  with 
which  this  amazing  story  was  greeted,  "  do  you  mean 
to  tell  me  that  this  is  a  true  yarn?" 

344 


THE  AMAZING  YARN  OF  THE  Bo'sVs  MATE 

"  Hev  I  brung  you  up,  Master  Futtocks,  to  doubt 
me?"  asked  the  old  man,  his  twinkling  eyes  belying 
the  resentment  in  his  voice. 

"  I  am  not  doubting  you,  Jack.  I'm  just  asking 
you  a  question." 

"Wall,  wall,  I'll  tell  ye  wot  to  do.  The  next  time 
you  see  Commodore  Rattlin  you  jest  ask  him  wot  was 
done  with  them  feemale  slaves  we  captured  in  the 
Stamico  w'en  we  was  together  in  the  old  Grampus  in 
the  Med't'ranean  in  1803." 

"  But,  Jack " 

"  Eight  bells,  sir,"  said  the  old  man,  rising  as  the 
four  couplets  proclaimed  the  hour.  "All  the  star- 
board watch  !"  he  cried,  shrilling  his  pipe  as  a  sign 
that  the  play-time  was  over. 


345 


THE  DISEMBODIED  SPIRIT 

THE  STORY  OF  A  WANDERING  SENSATION 

"  I  loaf  and  invite  thee,  my  soul, 

Leave  thy  fetters  of  flesh  and  be  free ; 
Soar  abroad,  scorning  earthly  control, 
On  a  son  of  a  spiritual  spree." 

TIMOTHY  BLAKE 

COMMON  sense — hard,  practical  common 
sense — is  a  great  and  important  factor 
in  this  world's  concerns.     I  am  not  a 
common-sense  person  myself, — though 
Geraldine  will  tell  you  that  I  am  a  man 
of    uncommon   sense, — but   it   is   to    common-sense 
people  that  I  address  myself ;  people  who  say,  if  they 
ever  so  far  forget  themselves  as  to  read  "  Rappaccini's 
Daughter,"  for  instance,  or  that  other  story  by  the 
gifted  son  of  his  gifted  father,  which  hides  its  weird 
fascination  under  the  name  of  "  Archibald  Malmaison," 
and  you  ask  them  if  they  like  the  stories  :     "  Oh,  of 
course  not ;  I  never  heard  of  such  improbable  things. 
Why,  how  is  it  possible  for  a  man  ?"  etc.     It  is  to  these 
people  I  write. 

I  live  in  the  enterprising  Western  city  of  Kalamalant. 
As  my  family  and  Geraldine's  family  have  lived  there 
many  years,  we  are  all  well  known,  and  any  of  my 
neighbors,  among  whom  are  a  judge  of  the  District 
Court,  a  retired  major-general  of  the  army,  a  United 

346 


THE  DISEMBODIED  SPIRIT 

States  Senator,  and  other  persons  of  undoubted 
veracity,  can  affirm  the  truth  of  the  strange  incidents 
of  which  I  am  the  principal  subject.  Geraldine  will 
say  that  this  is  not  the  only  case  in  which  I  am  the 
principal  subject,  royally  assuming  for  the  once — but 
I  digress.  Geraldine  says  I  always  take  too  much 
time  in  getting  at  the  point  of  the  story,  and  as 
Geraldine  is  the  only  critic  of  whom  I  am  afraid,  here 
goes. 

I,  James  Henry  Rettew,  commonly  called  Harry, 
was  about  twenty-six  years  old  in  the  year  of  our  Lord 
1901.  I  was  a  sleepy,  and  people  say  a  dreamy,  ab- 
stracted young  man.  Geraldine  thinks  me  handsome. 
She  is  alone  in  her  belief,  unless  I  agree  with  her  in 
this,  as  in  most  things.  I  was  possessed  of  a  little 
fortune,  and  was  a  well-informed  young  man  of  stu- 
dious bent,  having  read  largely  in  a  rather  desultory 
way.  My  favorite  study  was  the  spiritual  essence, 
or  soul  of  man,  especially  my  own. 

It  is  a  thing  I  believe  most  people  have,  though 
Geraldine  says  you  have  to  take  it  on  faith  in  the  case 
of  a  great  many  people.  What  was  it  ?  Where  was 
it,  this  pervading  vital  force  within  me  ?  How  did  it 
exist  within  my  body  ?  What  kept  it  there  ?  Was 
death  the  result  of  a  disassociation  of  the  two  ?  Was 
no  man  capable  of  ever  separating  the  one  from  the 
other  ? 

These  are  but  a  sample  of  the  speculations  in  which 
I  indulged.  And  I  actually  found  myself  in  the  way 
of  solving  some  of  these  problems  at  last.  Rumma- 
ging in  the  library  of  a  deceased  philosopher,  I  came 

347 


THE  DISEMBODIED  SPIRIT 

across  a  treatise  on  this  very  subject  by  a  sage  of  an- 
cient times,  the  learned  Egyptian  Archidechus.  No, 
you  will  not  find  his  name  in  the  encyclopaedias.  I  have 
purposely  altered  it,  lest  any  one  should  search  for  the 
pamphlet  and,  finding  it,  become  as  I  was — but  I 
anticipate. 

I  seized  upon  the  old  moth-eaten  parchment  volume 
with  avidity.  This  rare — I  do  not  think  there  was  an- 
other copy  in  existence  except  the  one  I  read — and 
wonderful  book  treated  of  the  spirit  or  essence  of  life 
as  distinguished  from  the  gross  and  visible  body.  The 
writer  held  that  it  was  possible  to  separate  the  one 
from  the  other  ;  in  other  words,  according  to  Archide- 
chus, the  spirit  might  leave  the  body  and  return  to  it 
at  pleasure  ;  in  fact,  the  writer  knew  of  such  a  case 
and  cited  it ;  he  also  gave  minute  directions  for  ac- 
complishing this  wonderful  feat.  I  shall  not  reveal 
them  to  you  nor  to  Geraldine,  though  that  is  the  only 
secret  I  do  not  share  with  her,  so  beware  how  you 
confide  in  me. 

Of  course  the  thing  was  ridiculous  ;  no  such  sepa- 
ration was  possible,  so  I  reasoned.  There  were  the 
directions,  however  ;  they  fascinated  me.  I  was  always 
an  imaginative  fellow  and  a  great  tryer  of  all  sorts  of 
strange  experiments  ;  why  should  I  not  try  this  one  ? 
I  confided  my  intentions  to  no  one,  not  even  to  Geral- 
dine. I  locked  myself  in  my  room  and  devoured  the 
old  book.  Great  stress  was  laid  upon  the  faith  neces- 
sary and  the  condition  of  the  mind.  It  was  stated 
that  any  violent  emotion  might  be  of  great  assistance 
at  the  final  moment  of — shall  I  call  it  dissolution  ? 

348 


THE  DISEMBODIED  SPIRIT 

Now  I  was  at  peace  with  all  the  world  except  John 
Haverford.  Haverford  was  in  love  with  Geraldine 
Holabird,  but  as  I  felt  sure  of  her  affection,  I  was  not 
able  to  get  up  any  violent  jealousy  on  her  account. 
Geraldine  has  since  told  me  that  if  she  had  known 
I  felt  so  confident  of  her  affection  she  would  have 
supplied  me  with  several  emotions  on  that  score  of  an 
exceedingly  violent  nature  ;  I  don't  believe  it 

However,  I  complied  with  the  other  directions,  and 
I  even  contrived  to  assume  a  reasonable  amount  of 
faith,  but  I  could  not  quite  manage  the  separation. 
I  could  apparently  concentrate  my  vital  force  on  one 
spot,  for  instance  ;  but,  exert  myself  as  I  would,  I 
could  not  break  the  tie.  The  idea  possessed  me  ;  I 
could  think  of  nothing  else.  Geraldine  says  I  was 
the  most  intensely  unsatisfactory  lover  at  this  time 
that  one  could  imagine,  and  that  she  had  serious 
thoughts  of  giving  me  up  for  John  Haverford. 

Our  love,  which  was  a  secret  affair, — and  none  the 
less  sweet  for  that,  by  the  way, — was  violently  opposed 
by  the  heads  of  both  our  houses,  there  being  some 
grudge  between  them.  Although  I  was  devoted  to 
her  and  she  to  me,  as  I  now  know,  though  I  did  not 
at  the  time,  yet  I  had  never  dared  to  take  more  of  a 
lover's  privilege  than  a  respectful  salute  upon  her 
hand.  Geraldine  was  a  tall  and  extremely  dignified 
girl,  and  how  she  ever  came  to  meet  me  clandestinely 
and  write  me  those  little  notes — I  have  them  yet — I 
don't  know.  She  says  she  doesn't  either. 

But  to  come  back  to  my  experiment.  My  want  of 
complete  success  preyed  upon  me.  I  grew  thin,  lost 

349 


THE  DISEMBODIED  SPIRIT 

my  appetite,  could  think  of  nothing  but  that  This, 
I  imagine,  was  one  of  the  reasons  for  my  final  success. 
Geraldine  says  I  ought  not  to  have  said  that,  as  it  will 
spoil  the  denouement.  However,  it  is  too  late  now. 
One  afternoon,  more  than  usually  discouraged  at  my 
repeated  failures,  when  I  was  about  to  consign  the 
volume  to  the  fire  as  a  false  prophet,  my  sister,  who 
acted  as  our  Mercury,  threw  a  note  into  my  room 
from  Geraldine.  I  opened  it,  I  must  confess,  rather 
listlessly. 

Good  heavens  !  Her  father  had  discovered  my  last 
letter,  he  was  furiously  angry,  swore  she  should  marry 
John  Haverford,  and  she  was  now  locked  in  her  own 
room  ;  I  would  recognize  it  by  the  white  ribbon  hang- 
ing from  the  window-sill,  and  I  must  do  something 
soon,  for  her  father  was  terribly  angry,  and  she  loved 
me  and  me  only,  her  own  Harry, — and  you  know  the 
rest !  (Geraldine  protests  against  these  unflattering 
allusions  to  her  notes.) 

What  happened  a  moment  after,  or  how  it  hap- 
pened, I  am  not  prepared  to  state  ;  one  thing  I  do 
know.  I  found  myself  in  the  street  and,  without  a 
thought  of  how  I  came  there,  was  hurrying  toward 
Geraldine's  house  ;  with  reckless  speed  I  ran  headlong 
full-tilt  into  a  lady  of  my  acquaintance.  The  concus- 
sion nearly  stunned  me.  What  was  my  surprise,  as  I 
hastily  took  off  my  hat  to  apologize  for  my  careless- 
ness, to  see  the  young  lady  calmly  walk  past  me, 
apparently  unconscious  of  my  presence,  and  giving 
no  evidence  of  having  been  in  a  collision  with  me ! 
This  rather  astonished  me,  but  Geraldine  was  so  much 

35o 


THE  DISEMBODIED  SPIRIT 

in  my  mind  that  I  dismissed  it  and  hastened  on.  It 
was  not  far  to  her  house,  and,  sure  enough,  there  was 
a  white  ribbon  fluttering  from  the  window  I  knew  to 
be  hers. 

In  my  reckless  desire  to  do  something  for  her,  I 
opened  the  gate  and  walked  into  the  yard, — that  is,  I 
found  myself  there,  and,  of  course,  could  have  come 
no  other  way.  I  am  not  much  of  an  athlete  and 
could  not  have  jumped  the  fence.  These  reflections 
did  not  occur  to  me  at  the  time,  but  the  next  thing 
which  happened  did  astonish  me.  While  I  was  stand- 
ing there  in  the  walk,  wondering  what  to  do  next,  the 
front  door  opened  and  old  Mr.  Holabird  came  out 
His  face  was  red  with  anger,  and  he  was  armed  with 
a  thick  club,  presumably  for  me.  Now,  I  am  not  a 
very  brave  man, — though  Geraldine  thinks  me  a  per- 
fect hero, — and  I  confess  I  trembled.  However,  I 
walked  up  to  him  and  said,  "  Mr.  Holabird,  your 
daughter " 

He  absolutely  did  not  see  me,  and  as  he  passed 
me,  with  excess  of  courage  I  laid  my  hand  upon  his 
arm,  but  he  took  no  more  heed  of  that  than  of  my 
voice.  What  could  have  been  the  matter  ? 

I  began  to  feel  a  little  alarmed,  and  gave  myself  a 
good  pinch  to  see  if  I  were  awake,  the  usual  resource 
of  people  in  a  like  situation — Geraldine  says  that  no 
one  ever  was  in  a  like  situation  before.  I  certainly 
was  awake,  for  the  pinch  hurt  me.  Marvelling  more 
and  more,  I  decided  to  go  into  the  house.  The  old 
gentleman  was  my  most  dangerous  opponent,  and 
with  him  out  of  the  way  I  felt  I  could  brave  the  rest 


THE  DISEMBODIED  SPIRIT 

of  the  household.  If  I  could  get  at  Geraldine,  I 
hoped  to  persuade  her  to  fly  with  me  ;  and  I  did  not 
doubt,  once  we  were  safely  married,  her  father  would 
forgive  us,  or  if  he  would  not,  I  should  not  greatly 
care,  so  long  as  I  could  have  Geraldine. 

Thinking  thus,  I  walked  up  to  the  door  and,  placing 
my  hand  on  the  bell,  gave  it  a  good  strong  pull.  The 
little  silver-plated  handle  did  not  move  an  inch !  I 
rubbed  my  eyes  and  tried  it  once  more — no  effect ! 
I  then  sat  down  to  consider.  Was  all  the  world  be- 
witched ?  I  racked  my  brain  until  the  door  opened 
and  one  of  the  children  ran  out.  She  came  over  to 
the  chair  I  sat  in  and  dropped  into  my  lap.  I  got 
out  of  the  chair  in  a  second,  just  how  I  could  not 
say.  I  am  not  over-fond  of  children  of  that 
age. 

"Why,  Jennie!"  I  cried,  somewhat  indignantly. 
"  What  do  you  mean  by  jumping  on  my  lap  in  this 
unceremonious  manner?  Where  is  Geraldine?  Go 
tell  her  I  want  to  see  her  at  once." 

I  was  getting  angry  ;  but,  would  you  believe  it?  that 
child  went  on  playing  with  her  doll  and  completely 
ignored  me  !  It  was  too  much  ;  I  wondered  whether 
the  whole  town  were  in  a  conspiracy  to  drive  me  crazy. 
In  despair  I  resolved  to  see  Geraldine  at  once,  and  at 
the  risk  of  being  shot  for  a  burglar,  I  turned  to  the 
door  the  little  girl  had  fortunately  left  open  and 
walked  in. 

As  I  entered  the  hall  my  foot  slipped  on  the  marble 
tiling  and  I  fell  heavily  against  an  exquisite  bisque 
head  standing  on  the  newel  post.  When  I  picked 

352 


THE  DISEMBODIED  SPIRIT 

myself  up,  sufficiently  sore  from  my  fall  to  be  con- 
vinced that  it  was  a  real  one,  the  bisque  figure-head 
was  standing  safely  and  smiling  at  me — it  was  a  laugh- 
ing head — in  a  way  I  conceived  to  be  particularly 
exasperating.  I  was  so  excited  by  this  time  that  I 
struck  it  a  furious  blow  with  my  fist,  and  still  that 
infernal  head  stood  and  grinned  at  me  ! 

If  I  did  not  see  Geraldine  soon  I  felt  that  I  would 
go  mad,  so  I  marched  upstairs  until  I  came  to  the 
door  of  her  room.  I  knocked  gently  on  the  door ; 
there  was  no  sound  !  I  tried  the  handle  with  the 
same  ill  success  as  before.  This  was  the  last  straw. 
I  confess  I  stood  at  that  door  and  shouted  and 
screamed  and  kicked  it, — pounded  on  it  until  I  sank 
exhausted  on  the  floor, — and  still  no  thought  of  my 
real  condition  entered  my  head. 

It  happened  that  in  my  present  situation  my  eyes 
were  just  on  a  level  with  the  key-hole.  I  peeped  in. 
There  was  Geraldine  ;  I  could  see  her  plainly ;  and  in 
another  moment  1  saw  her  take  a  letter  from  her 
dress,  kiss  it  passionately,  and  burst  into  a  storm  of 
sobs  and  tears.  I  was  so  wrought  up  by  this  time 
that  in  spite  of  my  fatigue  I  jumped  to  my  feet,  and 
in  another  second  I  found  myself  by  her  side. 

She  was  clad  in  some  soft  white  wrapper,  her  hair 
all  unbound,  and  was  kneeling  with  her  face  in  her 
arms  on  a  chair.  I  was  inexpressibly  touched  by  her 
heart-broken  attitude.  I  had  never  been  anything  but 
a  very  formal  lover,  as  I  said  before  ;  however,  I 
thought  the  circumstances  might  warrant  me  in 
waiving  a  little  ceremony,  especially  as  she  evidently 
23  353 


THE  DISEMBODIED  SPIRIT 

needed  a  comforter  sadly,  so  I  walked  quickly  over 
to  her  and  laid  my  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"Geraldine,"  I  said,  "my  darling,  I  am  here  to 
help  you.  Geraldine,  won't  you  speak  to  me?" 

There  was  no  answer  and  no  intermit  to  the  sobs 
and  tears  she  was  pouring  on  my  letter.  I  thought 
this  was  pushing  shyness  to  the  limit,  and  I  had  never 
suspected  her  of  being  timid.  However,  as  she  made 
no  objection  to  my  hand  being  on  her  shoulder,  I 
thought  that  was  a  good  sign,  and  I  knelt  down  be- 
side her  and  slipped  my  arm  around  her  neck  and 
said, — 

"Geraldine  dearest,  do  not  cry  so, — courage, — it 
will  be  all  right — "  (Pause.)  "Won't  you  speak 
to  me?  Please,  please  look  at  me  !"  (Longer  pause.) 
"Geraldine!"  I  shouted,  savagely,  "look  at  me  at 
once  or  I'll  leave  you  forever  !" 

No  response  of  any  kind  ! 

By  heaven  !  What  did  it  mean  ?  I  rose  and 
dropped  into  a  chair,  remarking, — 

"  I'll  sit  here  and  look  at  you  till  you  do  get  up  and 
say  something  to  me,  if  your  father  comes  in  here 
and  kills  me  !" 

So  I  waited  and  watched  her.  Presently  she  raised 
her  beautiful  eyes,  red  with  weeping,  and  fixed  them 
straight  on  me  without  the  slightest  sign  of  recog- 
nition, not  even  the  fear  that  would  have  filled  them 
had  I  been  a  stranger.  What  could  be  the  matter  ? 

I  rushed  over  to  the  long  swinging  mirror  in  the 
corner,  determined  to  look  at  myself  and  see  what 
was  wrong.  I  stood  directly  in  front  of  the  glass  and 

354 


THE  DISEMBODIED  SPIRIT 

glanced  at  its  bright  surface  to  make  a  last  effort  to 
solve  the  mystery.  Reader,  I  will  solemnly  assert 
that  when  I  looked  in  that  mirror,  expecting  to  see 
myself,  /  was  not  there  ! 

There  was  nothing  reflected  there  but  the  room 
and  contents  and  Geraldine  beyond,  completely  ob- 
livious of  me.  She  had  taken  a  small  picture  of  me 
I  had  given  her  and  was  alternately  looking  at  it  and 
pressing  it  to  her  heart.  This  evidence  of  an  affection 
which  I  scarcely  dared  to  hope  that  she  entertained 
for  me  was  certainly  very  gratifying,  and  at  any  other 
moment  would  have  filled  me  with  happiness  ;  but  in 
the  light  of  the  fact  that  I  was  not  there,  where  I  felt 
myself  to  be,  I  was  too  horror-struck  for  anything  else. 

I  stood  mechanically  glaring  at  Geraldine,  at  the 
glass  which  did  not  reflect  me,  and  at  myself.  I  could 
see  myself  with  my  own  eyes  perfectly,  hear  my  own 
voice  distinctly,  or  touch  myself  with  my  own  hands  ; 
in  fact,  I  could  see  and  feel  as  well  as  ever.  I  re- 
solved to  make  one  more  effort. 

"Geraldine,"  I  said,  softly.  "Geraldine,"  louder. 
"Geraldine!"  in  a  perfect  scream,  "lam  going  to 
kiss  you  this  moment !" 

She  was  lying  back  in  a  large  chair,  her  hands  list- 
lessly crossed  in  her  lap  and  her  eyes  closed.  I 
walked  firmly  to  her,  hesitated  a  second,  and  then 
bent  and  kissed  her  upon  the  lips. 

She  says  now  it  was  very  ungenerous  of  me  to  have 
taken  advantage  of  her,  but  I  submit  that  I  had  given 
every  possible  warning  of  my  intention,  and  besides  I 
was  wrought  up  to  such  a  pitch  by  the  events  of  the 

355 


THE  DISEMBODIED  SPIRIT 

afternoon  I  scarcely  knew  what  I  did  ;  so  I  kissed  her 
again  and  again,  and  this  did  really  have  some  effect 
upon  her.  At  first  she  blushed  a  warm,  beautiful 
crimson,  and  as  I  kissed  her  a  second  and  a  third 
time,  she  started,  raised  her  head,  opened  her  eyes 
with  a  little  scream,  and  said, — 

"  Oh,  I  must  have  fallen  asleep  and  dreamed  he  was 
here — I  suddenly  felt  a  kiss,  it  seemed — Oh,  Harry, 
Harry,  why  do  you  not  come  and  help  your  girl?"  and 
her  head  sank  back  in  the  chair  and  tears  came  again 
into  her  eyes.  "Oh,  Harry,  why  are  you  not  here?" 

I  was  nearly  frantic  by  this  time. 

"Geraldine,"  I  said,  "I  am  here.  I  did  kiss  you, 
really  and  truly,  a  moment  ago." 

But  she  paid  no  attention,  and  even  while  I  was 
speaking  kept  up  her  little  agonized  appeal  for  me  to 
come  and  help  her.  I  rushed  to  the  window,  leaped 
out  on  the  porch,  jumped  recklessly  to  the  ground, 
dashed  right  into  the  arms  of  Mr.  Holabird,  ran 
through  the  streets  to  my  own  house,  burst  into  the 
house,  tore  up  the  stairs  to  my  room,  and  saw — what  ? 

Myself,  calmly  and  composedly  lying  back  in  the 
chair  with  Geraldine's  letter  in  my  hand  !  This  was 
too'  awful ;  I  sank  down  in  the  other  chair,  and  as  I 
did  so  my  eyes  fell  upon  the  volume  of  the  learned 
Archidechus.  The  mystery  was  solved  !  There  in 
the  other  chair  was  my  physical  body,  and  in  this  one 
I  sat,  a  disembodied  spirit ! 

The  explanation  was  so  simple  and  evident  it 
brought  great  relief  to  me.  Everything  was  ex- 
plained. Of  course  no  looking-glass  could  reflect 

356 


THE  DISEMBODIED  SPIRIT 

the  spirit  of  a  man,  no  one  could  feel  him — or  it — 
or  hear  him  or  see  him  ;  of  course  he  could  not 
open  doors  or  strike  people  or  lift  anything,  though, 
to  be  sure,  no  door  could  prove  a  barrier  to  such  an 
ethereal,  immaterial  entity  as  a  disembodied  spirit. 

That  accounted  for  my  finding  myself  in  Ger- 
aldine's  room  in  spite  of  the  locked  door,  for  the 
child  sitting  down  on  my  lap,  for  the  bisque  head 
smiling  at  my  buffet,  for  Geraldine's  ignorance  of  my 
presence.  As  to  the  kiss — well,  love  was  the  highest 
and  noblest  sensation  (love  such  as  we  felt  for  each 
other)  and  as  nearly  a  spiritually  ethereal  feeling  as 
any  human  one  could  be  ;  so,  when  I  had  kissed  her, 
her  spiritual  being  had  responded  to  mine.  This  ex- 
planation fell  easily  in  with  the  rest. 

So  far  as  I  was  concerned,  I  was,  to  put  it  plainly 
and  simply,  only  my  feelings  and  sensations  ;  I  was  a 
wandering  sensation  !  Doubtless  my  spirit  took  the 
same  form  as  my  visible  body,  but  it  was  a  thing  so 
utterly  immaterial  as  to  be  absolutely  invisible  to  the 
human  eye.  I  could  talk,  walk,  see,  and  hear,  be- 
cause I  had  all  my  sensations  with  me,  the  guiding 
essence  of  my  brain,  too  ;  but  really  my  voice,  for 
instance,  was  not  audible,  because  when  I  opened  my 
spiritual  mouth  it  was  only  with  the  sensation  of 
speaking,  and  no  real  sound  was  made  ;  or,  to  put  an- 
other explanation  before  you,  my  voice  had  become 
refined  in  proportion  with  the  rest  of  me,  and  was 
pitched  in  such  a  sound-wave  as  the  human  ear  was 
not  capable  of  receiving  and  concentrating. 

At  that  moment  this  seemed  very  interesting  to  me, 
357 


THE  DISEMBODIED  SPIRIT 

and  I  settled  myself  comfortably  back  in  my  chair 
and  laughed  long  and  loudly.  Of  course  I  could  go 
back  into  my  own  body  at  any  time,  and  matters 
would  straighten  themselves  out  at  once.  I  sat  specu- 
latively  contemplating  my  body.  It  was  a  dramatic 
moment,  indeed ! 

My  body  was  sitting  in  the  chair  in  exactly  the 
same  position  I  had  been  when  I  left  it,  or  rather,  I 
should  say,  we  had  been  when  I  left  it.  I  bent  over 
and  touched  it — or  him  ? — he  felt  warm  and  natural, 
but  not  as  if  asleep.  There  was  no  beating  of  the 
heart,  no  rise  or  fall  of  the  breast  as  in  breathing,  the 
eyes  were  opened  and  fixed  but  not  glassy,  the  joints 
appeared  to  be  flexible  still,  though,  of  course,  I 
could  not  have  moved  one  to  see — in  short,  my  body 
presented  every  appearance  of  suspended  animation. 
I  resolved  not  to  try  to  get  back  into  it  just  at  present, 
and  was  still  sitting  there  speculating  upon  my  double 
self  when  the  door  opened  and  my  sister — the  one  who 
brought  the  letter — came  in  ;  she  was  my  favorite,  and 
we  were  great  friends.  She  glanced  at  me,  and,  sup- 
posing I  was  asleep,  drew  a  chair  over  to  the  window 
and  waited  for  me  to  awaken. 

The  fire  was  burning  brightly  in  the  grate,  and,  as 
ill-luck  would  have  it,  a  bright  little  coal  sprang  out 
and  fell  on  my  lap, — that  is,  the  lap  of  my  body.  It 
seemed  as  if  there  was  yet  some  sort  of  a  connection 
between  us,  because  while  the  coal  burnt  into  the  leg  of 
my  body,  it  was  I  who  felt  the  sensation.  I  rushed 
over  to  myself  and  attempted  to  brush  it  off!  Of 
course  I  could  not.  The  pain  was  really  unbearable, 

358 


THE  DISEMBODIED  SPIRIT 

and,  forgetting  my  state,  I  called  to  Mary,  my  sister  ; 
of  course  she  did  not  hear  me  !  This  was  a  worse 
dilemma  than  before.  I  decided  at  once  to  resume 
my  proper  condition,  when,  horror  of  horrors !  I 
found  that  I  did  not  know  how. 

It  was  true  !  I  had  been  so  constantly  occupied  in 
endeavoring  to  get  out  of  myself,  as  it  were,  that  I  had 
completely  omitted  to  learn  the  way  to  get  in  !  This 
was  worse  than  anything  previous.  I  forgot  all  about 
the  glowing  coal  which  was  still  burning  me,  in  the 
dreadful  possibility  which  rose  before  me.  Suppose 
they  should  bury  me,  would  I  suffer  the  pangs  of  suffo- 
cation forever,  or  at  least  until  my  body  resolved  it- 
self into  its  primordial  elements  ?  I  knew,  of  course, 
my  spirit  would  never  die,  and  if  my  body  did  turn  to 
dust,  would  my  spirit  go  with  those  of  other  departed 
beings,  as  the  Bible  teaches  us,  or  would  the  fact  that 
I  had  taken  my  spirit  in  my  own  hands,  as  it  were, 
condemn  me  to  wander  forever  in  my  present  state  ? 

I  certainly  felt  my  spiritual  hair  turn  gray.  What 
would  become  of  Geraldine?  Would  I  ever  see  her 
again  or,  rather,  would  she  ever  see  me  ?  Would  she 
at  last  forget  me  and  marry  some  one  else,  and  force 
me  to  stand  powerless  looking  on?  I  ground  my 
spiritual  teeth  in  rage  and  clinched  my  spiritual  hand 
and  swore — but  what  was  the  use  of  swearing?  I 
could  do  nothing.  I  was  too  utterly  ethereal,  too 
entirely  disembodied  to  even  haunt  any  one,  too 
ephemeral  for  a  ghost  even !  Oh,  horror  !  I  thought 
my  brain  would  give  way.  I  thought  of  everything  I 
could  to  help  me  out. 

359 


THE  DISEMBODIED  SPIRIT 

I  had  dabbled  a  little  in  hypnotism  and  had  ex- 
perimented surreptitiously  on  various  members  of  my 
family,  principally  my  sister  Mary,  and  with  some 
effect  Now,  hypnotism  is  the  controlling  of  one  will 
by  another.  The  will  is  an  essential  attribute  of  the 
spirit ;  there  is  nothing  gross  about  it  It  is  true  that 
the  weakest  and  most  physically  imperfect  specimens 
of  this  twofold  race  of  ours  sometimes  possess  the 
most  powerful  wills ;  plainly,  then,  body,  physically  con- 
sidered, had  nothing  to  do  with  this  will  power  which  is 
the  secret  of  hypnotic  force.  Apparently  I  had  my 
will  power  in  better  shape  for  use  than  at  any  time  in 
my  corporate  body.  I  had  it  separated,  under  com- 
mand, and  could  concentrate  it  more  easily  and  ad- 
vantageously. I  would  try  it 

I  got  up,  made  the  usual  passes,  and  ordered  Mary 
to  come  and  throw  that  coal  off  my  leg.  She  did  so 
at  once.  I  was  delighted.  She  stood  abashed  and 
silent  in  the  presence  of  the,  to  her,  hidden  force 
controlling  her.  It  flashed  upon  me  in  an  instant 
I  could  cause  her  to  open  the  volume  of  Archidechus 
and  turn  the  pages  for  me.  Joy  !  No  sooner  said 
than  done. 

I  sat  down  beside  her  and  willed  her  to  do  as  I 
directed.  I  hastily  made  her  turn  to  the  part  which 
treated  of  the  resumption  of  the  relationship  ;  a  new 
disappointment  awaited  me  —  the  learned  Archi- 
dechus stated  that  the  individual  in  the  case  he 
studied  had  never  resumed  his  mortal  condition,  and 
that  the  means  of  doing  so  were  entirely  unknown  to 
him.  That  took  away  my  last  hope. 

360 


THE  DISEMBODIED  SPIRIT 

Mechanically  I  released  Mary  from  the  influence 
and  then  waited  to  see  what  she  would  do.  Her 
glance  fell  upon  me,  and  she  looked  at  me  wonder- 
ingly. 

"Why,"  she  said,  "  how  long  Harry  sleeps  !"  She 
touched  him  on  the  shoulder.  "  Harry  !  Harry  !" 
and  then  she  looked  in  his  face  and  screamed. 

The  family,  the  servants,  every  one,  came  running 
in.  They  filled  my  little  room,  and  after  narrowly 
escaping  being  crushed  to  death  by  our  fat  cook,  who 
hysterically  sank  back  in  the  chair  in  which  I  was  sit- 
ting, I  walked  over  to  the  corner  of  the  room  and 
waited.  They  picked  him  up  and  laid  him  on  the  bed, 
and  tried  all  the  simple  remedies  they  knew  to  revive 
him.  One  poured  brandy  down  his  physical  throat, — 
imagine  the  sensation  in  my  spiritual  one, — another 
one  chafed  his  hands,  one  wetted  a  towel  and  struck 
him  repeatedly  with  it,  the  old-fashioned  feather 
was  held  under  his  physical  nose  —  imagine  my 
spiritual  sensation  a  thousand  times  intensified  and 
judge  what  I  suffered. 

I  wished  they  would  go  away  and  bury  me  decently 
and  let  me  alone  ;  it  was  too  much  to  endure  quietly. 
I  tried  to  hypnotize  the  whole  lot,  but  unavailingly. 
Finally  the  futility  of  their  efforts  dawned  upon  them 
and  they  sat  down  to  wait  while  one  went  for  a  doctor. 

Doctor  !  I  thought,  contemptuously  ;  what  could  he 
do  ?  unless,  indeed,  they  might  find  a  stray  spiritualist 
who  could  fulfil  his  promises  and  perhaps  summon 
my  spirit  back  into  its  earthly  shell.  Sure,  never  had 
I  seemed  so  sweet  to  myself.  If  I  ever  got  back  to 

361 


THE  DISEMBODIED  SPIRIT 

myself  again  I  made  a  solemn  vow  never  to  leave  my- 
self on  any  pretext 

Presently  the  door  opened  and  my  father  came  in. 
My  mother  was  long  since  dead.  The  old  gentleman 
was  almost  heart-broken  ;  he  sat  down  beside  me  and 
took  my  physical  hand.  (I  find  the  pronouns  very 
confusing  in  endeavoring  to  relate  this  dual  story.) 
I  would  have  given  worlds  to  comfort  him.  Different 
members  of  the  family  stood  around  the  room  talking 
in  low,  hushed  whispers  of  the  dreadful  fate  that  had 
befallen  me,  exchanging  reminiscences  about  me,  ex- 
tolling me  for  many  virtues  I  never  possessed.  There 
was  some  consolation  in  hearing  what  a  noble  fellow 
I  was.  I  have  not  heard  it  before,  nor  have  I  heard 
it  since,  except  from  Geraldine.  Finally  the  door 
opened  and  the  doctor  entered.  He  could  do  nothing 
whatever,  as  I  had  foreseen, — he  actually  pronounced 
me  dead, — and  a  few  hours  later  I  found  myself 
neatly  laid  out  in  a  coffin  in  the  parlor, — that  is,  my 
physical  body  was. 

I  took  the  most  comfortable  chair — when  no  one 
else  wanted  it,  of  course — and  waited  for  further  de- 
velopments. This  was  growing  interesting,  and  I  had 
become  somewhat  resigned  to  the  hopelessness  of  my 
situation.  I  noted  several  curious  facts.  After  a  while 
I  got  very  sleepy,  intensely  so,  and  lay  back  in  my 
chair  and  closed  my  eyes  and  tried  to  go  to  sleep.  It 
was  no  use  ;  I  could  not.  And  yet  I  never  so  longed  to 
go  to  sleep  in  my  life.  The  fact  was,  a  spirit  could  not 
sleep  ;  and  it  was  my  body  there  in  the  coffin  which 
felt  sleepy  ;  but  I  must  suffer  for  it.  It  was  the  same 

362 


THE  DISEMBODIED  SPIRIT 

way  with  hunger.  I  was  hungry.  I  actually  got  so 
desperate  as  to  go  out  to  the  pantry  and  look  at  the 
cold  chicken  and  boiled  ham  there.  I  could  easily 
smell  them  ;  but  as  to  the  eating — oh,  it  was  horrible  ! 
I  do  not  know  how  I  got  through  the  night 

The  next  day  I  could  do  nothing  but  sit  and  look 
at  the  people  who  came  to  see  me  and  hear  what  they 
had  to  say.  I  have  forgotten  to  mention  that  in  my 
condition  I  seemed  to  have  as  one  of  its  attributes  a 
peculiar  faculty  of  divining  the  real  thoughts  of  the 
people  who  came  to  look  at  me.  Among  them  was 
John  Haverford.  He  was  actually  glad  to  see  me  ;  so 
at  least  I  read  his  thought  Geraldine  thinks  I  must 
have  been  mistaken  ;  at  any  rate,  the  sight  of  him 
filled  me  with  so  much  rage  that  I  rushed  over  to  him, 
I  threatened  him  ;  I  did  more,  I  struck  him,  kicked 
him,  nothing  of  which  he  was  sensible.  It  was  too  bad. 

Geraldine  did  not  come.  I  waited  heart-broken  for 
her.  Would  she  come  ?  The  old  man  surely  would 
not  keep  her.  He  was  a  pretty  good  fellow,  after  all 
— he  is  devoted  to  our  youngest  daughter  now.  I 
thought  he  certainly  might  bring  her.  I  did  not  go 
out  I  could  not  bear  to  leave  my  lonesome  looking 
body  in  the  coffin.  I  had  no  heart  for  further  adven- 
tures, anyway.  I  was  intensely  cramped  from  lying 
so  long  in  one  position.  When  I  die  I  am  going  to 
be  cremated  ;  no  more  coffins  for  me.  My  wife  says, 
however,  she  will  not  hear  of  that 

Geraldine  told  me  afterwards  that  she  passed  the  day 
in  longing  for  me  to  come  and  take  her  away,  and 
wondering  why  I  did  not,  besides  being  continually 

363 


THE  DISEMBODIED  SPIRIT 

impressed  with  a  premonition  that  something  was 
going  to  happen.  Finally,  toward  night  on  the 
second  day  of  my  anomalous  situation,  Mary — good 
and  faithful  Mary — bethought  herself  to  go  and  tell 
Geraldine.  On  hearing  the  news  that  noble  girl 
promptly  fainted.  She  recovered  herself,  however, 
and  through  Mary's  aid  managed  to  get  out  of  the 
house  and  come  down  to  see  me. 

I  was  looking  at  myself  very  dejectedly  in  the 
parlor,  half  dead  from  loss  of  sleep,  hunger,  and 
thirst,  and  wholly  crazy  from  loss  of  love  and  my 
dreadful  prospects, — I  surmised  they  would  bury  me 
to-morrow, — when  I  heard  the  outside  door  open,  a 
familiar  and  yet  nervous  step  sounded  in  the  hall,  and 
then  the  parlor  door  opened.  I  had  recognized  the 
step  ;  it  was  Geraldine,  but  how  changed  !  I  forgot 
myself  and  my  trouble,  and  as  she  threw  herself  down 
on  her  knees  and  clasped  me  in  her  arms  and  kissed 
me,  I  suffered  for  her  agony  a  thousand  times  worse  than 
for  mine.  Great  heavens  !  Was  ever  man  in  such  a 
predicament  ?  I  bent  over  her  in  despair,  and  as  she 
turned  her  face  up  in  prayer,  I  kissed  her  lips  again. 
She  sprang  to  her  feet  and  screamed, — 

"  Oh,  he  is  not  dead  !  I  am  sure  of  it !  I  felt  him 
kiss  me  !  I  cannot  be  mistaken  !  Mary,  send  for 
papa,  and  tell  him  to  bring  his  newest  and  most  power- 
ful storage  battery  along.  I  am  sure  Harry  is  not 
dead  ;  hurry,  hurry  !" 

So  it  was  from  Geraldine  herself  that  this  new  idea 
of  torture  emanated.  Oh,  why  could  they  not  let  a 
disembodied  spirit  alone  in  its  peaceful  misery  ?  An 

364 


THE  DISEMBODIED  SPIRIT 

electric  battery  could  do  no  good,  and  it  would  be 
worse  than  the  burnt  feather. 

Old  Mr.  Holabird  was  an  electrician  and  an  enthu- 
siast. He  would  have  sacrificed  his  best  friend  to  an 
experiment,  and  consequently  did  not  hesitate  to  come 
and  practice  upon  me,  whom  he  hated  so  bitterly 
previous  to  the  unfortunate  dissolution  of  partnership 
between  my  body  and  spirit.  He  was  soon  in  the 
parlor  with  a  servant  following  him  bringing  the 
battery.  He  was  angry  and  astonished  at  seeing 
Geraldine,  but  his  experiment  was  too  engrossing  for 
much  time  to  be  wasted  upon  her  then. 

Having  obtained  the  consent  of  my  father,  he 
began  taking  off  my  shoes  and  then  my  socks.  I 
blushed  crimson  ;  at  least  my  spiritual  entity  did.  My 
physical  body,  I  must  confess,  betrayed  no  evidence 
of  shame  at  the  exposure  ;  and  before  Geraldine,  too  ! 
Mary  and  father  and  the  rest  of  the  family  looked  on 
with  anxiety  and  little  apparent  faith.  Geraldine 
stood  beside  me,  resting  one  hand  against  my  breast 
and  looking  at  me  as  if  not  to  lose  the  faintest  sign  of 
life  I  might  show.  Her  father,  all  business  and  energy, 
attached  the  wires  with  a  reckless  want  of  ceremony  ; 
I  thought  in  wretchedly  bad  taste.  I  must  confess  I 
hoped  for  the  result  of  this  experiment  but  faintly  ; 
however,  there  might  be  something  in  it,  so  I  stood 
with  my  arm  around  Geraldine  and  my  head  resting 
upon  her  shoulder — spiritually,  of  course — as  the 
connection  was  made. 

I  was  quiet  enough  for  just  one-millionth  of  a 
second,  till  I  felt  the  power  of  the  current.  It  was 

365 


THE  DISEMBODIED  SPIRIT 

awful ;  worse  than  any  other  experiment.  I  groaned 
in  anguish  while  that  fiendish  old  man  made  the  cur- 
rent stronger  and  stronger,  and  that  miserably  placid 
body  of  mine  lay  there  as  calm  and  as  unfeeling  as  a 
log,  while  I  was  in  torment  I  flew  at  the  old  man, 
clinched  my  hands  in  his  hair,  grasped  him  around  the 
throat,  did  everything,  and  yet  had  to  bear  a  current 
strong  enough  to  have  killed  a  dozen  men,  added  to 
which  was  the  anguish  of  feeling  my  last  hope  vanish. 
I  was  doomed  ! 

The  scientific  fervor  of  old  Holabird  was  at  last  sat- 
isfied, and  he  allowed  the  current  to  die  down  to  one 
of  much  less  intensity,  merely  keeping,  as  he  said,  a 
little  on  in  case  of  an  emergency.  A  little  !  It  felt  like 
ten  toothaches  run  into  one,  but  was  so  much  less  than 
before  that  it  seemed  almost  like  a  caress  in  the  first 
moment  of  relief. 

While  I  was  standing  there  helplessly,  wondering 
what  they  would  do  with  me,  the  old  man  walked  up 
to  Geraldine,  who  stood  wringing  her  hands,  looking 
at  me,  with  her  last  hope  gone,  too,  poor  girl !  and 
said, — 

"  Come,  Geraldine,  we  must  go  ;  the  man  is  dead." 

"  Liar  !"  I  shouted  ;  but  no  one  heard  me. 

"And  there  is  no  use  staying  here,"  he  continued  ; 
"  I  tell  you  you  must  come.  I  promised  John  Haver- 
ford  that  you  would  see  him  to-night.  He  asked  me 
for  your  hand,  and  I  consented  to-day." 

Oh,  I  could  have  begged  him  to  turn  on  the  elec- 
tricity again  ;  each  pang  fate  had  in  store  for  me  was 
worse  than  before.  Geraldine  answered  gloriously, — 

366 


THE  DISEMBODIED  SPIRIT 

"  But  /have  not  consented." 

"What  difference?  I  say  you  shall  marry  him  !" 
he  said,  grasping  her  wrist. 

"  And  I  say  I  will  not  !  I  will  be  faithful  to  my 
dear  dead  Harry  here  !" 

"  Nonsense  !  You  shall  marry  Haverford  !  You 
must  I" 

At  this  moment  a  strange  thing  occurred.  Geral- 
dine  wrenched  herself  away  from  her  father,  threw 
herself  upon  the  physical  half  of  me,  and  whispered, 
"  I'll  die  with  him  first  I" 

Something  passed  over  me  as  a  blinding  lightning 
flash,  and  behold  !  The  body  in  the  coffin  struggled, 
sat  up,  clasped  a  trembling  arm  about  Geraldine,  and 
exclaimed, — 

"  I  am  not  dead,  Geraldine.  And  you,  you  infernal 
old  villain,  get  out  of  my  sight  !  Take  off  the  bat- 
tery ;  give  me  something  to  eat  and  drink  !" 

The  spirit  had  entered  my  body  again.  My  love 
for  Geraldine  and  her  love  for  me  had  wrought  the 
miracle,  just  as  anxiety  for  her  and  love  for  her  had 
wrought  the  first  change.  Ay,  through  love  the 
world  is  made  and  destroyed. 

There  is  nothing  more  to  tell.  My  story  was  so 
circumstantial  that  people  generally  believe  it  in  spite 
of  the  learned  doctors,  who  hold  it  to  have  been 
merely  a  case  of  suspended  animation.  In  my  mind 
and  Geraldine's,  however,  there  is  no  doubt  about  it 
Besides,  does  not  the  learned  Archidechus  say — but 
never  mind  ;  if  it  were  not  for  this  affair  Geraldine 
says  she  might  have  been  years  in  finding  out  her 

367 


THE  DISEMBODIED  SPIRIT 

heart  as  she  did  when  she  thought  me  dead,  and  her 
father  never  would  have  consented  to  our  marriage  as 
he  did. 

He  is  very  kind  to  us  now,  and  we  are  very  happy, 
and  have  only  anxiety  lest  my  spirit  should  ever  take 
to  wandering  again.  Geraldine  says  if  it  does  she 
will  marry  John  Haverford,  who  is  still  pining  for  her  ; 
but  I  know  that  is  only  a  threat  to  prevent  the  disso- 
lution of  partnership,  as  she  confesses  in  private  that 
she  would  never  marry  any  one  but  me — never  ! 

I  am  very  fat  and  well  now,  and  have  burned  up 
the  parchments  of  the  learned  Archidechus,  and  am 
training  myself  utterly  to  disbelieve  such  things.  The 
memory  seems  like  a  faint  dream  now  in  the  light  of 
our  present  happiness,  for  Geraldine  is  the  loveliest 
and  sweetest  of  wives,  and  says  I  am  the  best  of  hus- 
bands. And  giving  her  that  last  word,  I  lay  down 
the  pen. 


THE    END 


368 


By  the  same  Author. 

WHEN  BLADES  ARE  OUT 
AND  LOVE'S  AFIELD 

By  Cyrus  Townsend  Brady 

Illustrated.     Decorated.     12010. 


ornamented  binding, 


$1.50 


A  comedy  of  cross  purposes  in  the  Carolinas,  in  which 
Mr.  Brady  has  done  some  of  his  most  fascinating 
work  in  the  weaving  into  romance  of  historical  fact  and 
figure.  The  love  story  brings  into  the  action  two  peculiarly 
charming  women  of  contrasting  types,  and  these  play  fore- 
most parts  in  the  plot. 

The  book  is  notable  besides  for  its  introduction  of  the 
figure  of  General  Greene,  and  for  its  account  of  the 
brilliant  role  he  played  in  the  campaign  in  the  South.  Mr. 
Brady  may  always  be  depended  upon  for  brisk  action  and 
a  wealth  of  incident.  For  all  who  enjoy  adventure  and 
gallant  deeds,  and  the  winning  of  hearts,  this  novel  will 
be  a  delight. 

It  is  a  conspicuous  example  of  beautiful  book-making, 
bound  in  buff  cloth  with  brown  stamping.  It  has  the 
distinction  of  eight  illustrations  from  drawings  by  E. 
Plaisted  Abbott,  and  decorations  in  colors  by  E.  S. 
Holloway,  besides  head-  and  tail-pieces. 

"Thousands  and  tens  of  thousands  of  copies  of  it  'go.'  There  is 
little  doubt  that  this  is  another  successful  book  of  this  sort." — Mail  and 
Express,  New  York. 

[OVER.] 


"  A  romance  of  love  and  war,  with  two  delightful  heroines  who  are 
certain  to  hold  feminine  interest." — Philadelphia  Press, 

"The  author's  soldiers  are  real,  his  girls  real  women." — Boston 
Journal. 

"  A  perfect  gem  of  a  volume — one  of  the  daintiest  and  prettiest  that 
ever  came  to  the  World's  table." — New  York  World. 

"  It  is  written  in  a  dashing  style  that  cannot  fail  to  hold  the  interest, 
and  shows  up  the  character  and  bravery  of  General  Nathanael  Greene. ' ' 
—  The  Churchman,  Detroit. 

"  The  publishers  have  spared  no  expense  to  make  this  volume  one  of 
the  daintiest  novels." — Baltimore  Sun. 

11  The  action  of  the  story  is  spirited,  the  love  interest  is  strong,  and 
bits  of  revolutionary  history  are  cleverly  set  into  the  background." — 
Boston  Herald. 

"  There  is  no  striving  after  choice  expression  or  artificial  scenes,  but 
just  the  happy-go-lucky  vivacity  of  the  irrepressible  raconteur,  and  the 
coquettish  Sarah  is  delightful.  A  cheerful  bellicose  book." — Brooklyn 
Eagle. 

"  So  pretty  a  specimen  of  book-making,  illustrating  the  possibilities 
of  decorative  art  as  applied  to  typography,  as  '  When  Blades  Are  Out  and 
Love's  Afield,"  seldom  comes  in  the  way  of  a  reviewer." — Nashville 
American. 

"  This  new  novel  should  outstrip  all  Mr.  Brady's  preceding  works 
in  popularity,  for,  while  retaining  the  strength  and  virility  of  his  earlier 
books,  it  much  surpasses  them  in  heart  interest  and  charm." — Argonaut, 
San  Francisco. 

"  A  dainty  love  story.  The  book  well  repays  the  reading." — The 
Outlook. 

"  The  book  revels  in  love,  war,  adventure,  so  what  more  can  be 
asked?" — Detroit  Journal. 

"  There  is  just  enough  of  war  in  the  book  to  carry  the  spirit  of  the 
times — there  is  just  enough  of  the  photography  of  the  American  sentiment 
of  those  days  to  make  the  blood  of  to-day  leap  at  the  injustice  of  yester- 
day. There  is  just  enough  of  love  to  make  the  heart  go  out  to  those  who 
suffered  in  consequence  of  the  duel  of  cross  purposes  which  runs  through- 
out the  story." — New  York  Press. 


By  E.   L.  VOYNICH. 

izmo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

"The  strongest  novel  that  the  present  season  has  produced." — 
Pall  Mall  Gazette,  London. 

"  Wonderful  and  terrible ;  wonderful  in  its  intellectual  effect,  ter- 
rible for  the  intensity  of  feeling  effects." — Boston  Courier. 

"  One  of  the  uniquely  interesting  stories  of  the  year." — The  World, 
New  York. 


SISTER 
TERESA. 

By  GEORGE   MOORE. 

i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

' '  A  psychological  study  of  extraordinary  power,  revealing  the  fine- 
ness of  George  Moore's  literary  methods." — Philadelphia  Press. 

"Absorbing  to  the  end  as  a  narrative,  'Sister  Teresa'  is  also  a 
remarkable  exhibit  of  finished  thought  and  skill." — New  York  World. 


J.    B.   LIPPINCOTT   COMPANY,   PHILADELPHIA 


THAT  MAINWARING  AFFAIR. 

By  A.   MAYNARD    BARBOUR. 

Illustrated.     121110.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  Reminds  one  of  Anna  Katherine  Green  in  her  palmiest  days. 
.  .  .  Keeps  the  reader  on  the  alert ;  deserves  the  applause  of  all  -who 
like  mystery." — Town  Topics,  New  York. 

"  Possibly  in  a  detective  story  the  main  object  is  to  thrill.  If  so, 
'  That  Mainwaring  Affair'  is  all  right.  The  thrill  is  there, — full 
measure,  pressed  down,  and  running  over." — Life,  New  York. 


THE   LOVER  FUGITIVES. 

By  JOHN   FINNEMORE. 

Illustrated,     izmo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

"It  is  an  historical  romance  of  the  period  following  the  Monmouth 
rebellion,  and  is  full  to  brimming  over  of  the  bravest  deeds  and  most 
stirring  incidents." — New  York  Journal, 

BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR. 

THE   RED   MEN    OF   THE    DUSK. 

Illustrated,     izmo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 


WHEN   BLADES  ARE  OUT  AND 
LOVE'S   AFIELD. 

By  CYRUS   TOWNSEND   BRADY. 

Buff  buckram,  eight  illustrations,  with  colored  border 
decorations ;  also  head-pieces,  $1.50. 

"As  a  romance  it  is  delightful." — Boston  Transcript. 
"  A  perfect  gem  of  a  volume.     One  of  the  daintiest  that  ever  came 
to  the  World's  table." — New  York  World. 


J.    B.   LIPPINCOTT   COMPANY,   PHILADELPHIA 


By  BARONESS  VON    HUTTEN. 

MARR'D  IN  MAKING. 

With   frontispiece   by   E.    Plaisted   Abbott.      i2mo.      Cloth, 
ornamental,  $1.25. 

"  The  book  is  a  rare  specimen  of  finished  art  and  excels  for  interest, 
daring,  and  strength.  The  study  is  of  the  contrariety  of  a  woman 
who  is  known  to  herself,  but  who  holds  herself  unknown  to  the 
world,  and  it  is  quite  as  fascinating  as  '  Miss  CarmichaePs  Conscience,' 
which  first  brought  the  author,  the  Baroness  von  Hutten,  into  literary 
prominence. ' '  — Journal ',  Detroit. 

MISS  CARMICHAEL'S   CONSCIENCE. 
With   frontispiece    by    Elizabeth    Shippen    Greene. 
Cloth,  $1.00. 


By  JOHN   FINNEMORE. 

THE    RED    MEN    OF   THE    DUSK. 

A  Romance  of  the  Days  of  Cromwell.     With  illustrations. 
I2mo.      Cloth,  ornamental,  $1.50. 

"  This  is  a  story  of  the  days  of  Cromwell.  The  scene  is  laid  partly 
in  England  and  partly  among  the  mountain  fastnesses  of  Wales.  The 
'  Red  Men'  are  not  Indians,  but  are  Englishmen,  driven  by  the  un- 
quiet times  to  become  a  party  of  bandits.  The  hero  is  a  soldier  of  the 
King's,  of  good  birth,  who  seeks  refuge  among  them,  after  the  over- 
throw of  the  King's  court.  A  strong  and  exciting  story." — Brooklyn 
Eagle*  

By  WILLIAM  LE  QUEUX. 

THE    SIGN    OF    THE    SEVEN    SINS. 
I2mo.     Cloth,  $1.25. 

"  A  story  of  Monte  Carlo,  and  is  told  in  the  author's  very  best 
style.  Mysterious  and  thrilling  adventures  follow  very  closely,  the 
situations  are  startling,  the  surprises  are  many.  It  is  well  worth  read- 
ing."— Commercial,  Buffalo. 


J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY,  PHILADELPHIA 


By  WILLIAM  JASPER   N1COLLS. 

GRAYSTONE. 
Illustrated.     i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  The  most  exciting  incidents  take  place  in  a  town  in  the  coal 
regions  of  Pennsylvania.  ...  It  is  told  with  much  charm  of  style 
and  manner.  The  characters  are  well  and  clearly  drawn,  and  the 
narrative  has  a  sustained  and  cumulative  interest  that  is  none  too 
common  in  these  latter  days." — Philadelphia  Times. 


By  LOUISA  PARR. 

DOROTHY  FOX. 
Illustrated.     I2mo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

"The  heroine  is  a  charming  little  Quaker  whose  upbringing  forbids 
her  marrying  the  fascinating  English  officer  who  loves  her.  There  is 
a  pleasing  mixture  of  worldly  society  mingled  with  the  quaint  atmos- 
phere which  surrounds  the  Fox  family." — Indianapolis  Journal. 


By  JAMES   O.  G.  DUFFY. 

GLASS  AND  GOLD. 
I2tno.     Cloth,  $1.50, 

"A   strong   story.      The  presentation   of  Miranda   is   done  with 
broad  charity  and  keen  insight." — Evening  Telegraph. 


J.    B.   LIPPINCOTT   COMPANY,   PHILADELPHIA 


SELECTED   LIST  OF   FICTION. 

Books  marked  *  illustrated. 


WILLIAM   LE   QUEUX. 
The  Sign  of  the  Seven  Sins.    $1.25 ;  paper,  50  cents. 

JOHN   LUTHER   LONG. 

Miss  Cherry-Blossom  of  T6ky6.    $1.25. 

The  Fox-Woman.    $1.25.* 

H.    C.   MACILWAINE. 
Fate  the  Fiddler.    $1.50. 

W.   C.   MORROW. 

The  Ape,  The  Idiot,  and  Other  People.    $1.25. 

A  Man :  His  Mark.    $1.25.* 

B.   E.   STEVENSON. 
At  Odds  with  the  Regent.    $1.50.* 

MAURICE   THOMPSON. 

Sweetheart  Manette.    $1.25.* 

JOHN    STRANGE   WINTER. 

The  Price  of  a  Wife.    $1.25.          The  Magic  Wheel.    $1.25. 
A  Blaze  of  Glory.    $1.25. 


J.    B.   LIPPINCOTT   COMPANY,   PHILADELPHIA 


THE  "TRUE"  BIOGRAPHIES 


THE   TRUE   GEORGE   WASHINGTON. 

By  PAUL  LEICESTER  FORD. 

With  twenty-four  full-page  illustrations.  Crown  octavo. 
Cloth,  $1.00;  half  levant,  $5.00. 

THE 'TRUE  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN. 

By  SYDNEY  GEORGE  FISHER. 

With  numerous  illustrations.  Crown  octavo.  Cloth,  $2.00 ; 
half  levant,  $5.00. 

THE   TRUE   WILLIAM   PENN. 

By  SYDNEY  GEORGE  FISHER. 

With  numerous  hitherto  unpublished  illustrations,  portraits, 
and  fac-similes.  Crown  octavo.  Cloth,  $2.00 ;  half  levant, 
$5.00. 

THE   TRUE   THOMAS   JEFFERSON. 

By  WILLIAM  ELEROY  CURTIS. 

With  numerous  illustrations.  Crown  8vo.  Cloth,  $2.00, 
net ;  half  levant,  $5.00,  net.  Postage  13  cents  extra. 

"  The  house  of  Lippincott  started  the  '  true  portrait'  order  of 
biography,  in  contradistinction  to  the  garbled  eulogy  style  of  hero- 
chronicling,  with  Paul  Leicester  Ford's  'True  George  Washington.' 
The  next  season,  Mr.  Sydney  George  Fisher,  favorably  known  as  a 
writer  on  colonial  history  and  on  the  making  of  Pennsylvania,  was 
brought  forward  as  the  biographer  of  'The  True  Benjamin  Franklin.' 
Then  '  The  True  William  Penn'  from  the  same  source,  and  certainly 
Mr.  Fisher  was  well  equipped  far  this  task." — The  Interior,  Chicago. 


J.    B.  LIPPINCOTT   COMPANY,   PHILADELPHIA 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


